Between The Living And The Dying
by VivaVoce1
Summary: Can two people who feel like they live their lives in limbo find solace and maybe even love? Mac/OC with flashbacks to Mac/Claire. Minor crossover w/ NCIS and AU JAG.
1. Bridges

**Disclaimer:** I do not own **CSI:NY** or any of its characters. Any OCs however do belong to me.

**A/N: **This is a rewrite of my first story, which was titled _Breathe Again_. I was unhappy with the quality of my writing and decided my story needed a major overhaul. However, the basic premise remains the same.

Thanks to my betas, **hope4sall **for reading, and re-reading this chapter in my attempts to perfect it, and to **JustCallMeMarly** for reigning in my ideas.

* * *

_Prologue_

On more than one occasion did Sydney find herself tempted to drive the red '69 Corvette and herself along with it, over the Coronado Bridge. She would resist, only to have the impulse reassert itself later with more force. The one thing that held her back was the fear that she would survive. The last thing she wanted was to end up paralyzed in a hospital bed for the rest of her life. That would be an existence far worse than the one she was living now.

The temptation remained. And Sydney did nothing to avoid it. Rather, she gave into it, every chance she got. When her father suggested moving to another city, she couldn't deny that it was probably a good idea. When he encouraged her to choose New York she realized he didn't suspect her of nursing a death wish.

While living in San Diego she had only the Coronado Bridge to contend with. She wondered at the wisdom of moving to an island surrounded by nothing but bridges. Manhattan alone was connected to sixteen bridges. That was sixteen too many.

Never one to be intimidated and always one to assume a challenge, she accepted a job offer in the Big Apple from the New York Police Department. She knew full well that sooner or later (most likely sooner) she would come face to face with one of those towering structures. What she didn't know was whether they would become her companions or her tormentors.

It really was no surprise then, that on that night, when that particular call came through, she was the one to take it.

* * *

_Wednesday, January 15, 2003_

It was late in the evening, well after her workday had ended, but Sydney had yet to make it home for the night. Instead she was driving around lower Manhattan in her new, black Escalade, with the music from the radio being drowned out every few seconds by the dispatchers' voices over the scanner. She was familiarizing herself with her new home, or so she had lied to herself. In reality she was now quite familiar with this part of the city. A resident for only two weeks, but already she had made a dozen visits to this landmark. As she made her way closer and closer to the stone giant, a call out caught her attention.

"SVU is requested on the pedestrian path of the Manhattan Bridge_," _said a brusque female voice over the scanner.

Without hesitating Sydney picked up her mic and responded, "This is Lincoln 1-2-9. I'm in the area. I'll take the call."

"_Unbelievable_," thought Sydney to herself as she flipped on her siren and weaved her way through the late night traffic.

* * *

To some the sight would have been startling, but to the New Yorker who's seen everything and to the cops, detectives and CSIs who've seen even more, it wasn't that odd of a display. A young, Caucasian female, of average height with medium length auburn hair, was tied to the chain link fence mounted above the railing than ran the length of the bridge. She was dressed in a black leather corset with matching boyshorts, fishnet stockings and black boots with stiletto heels. The macabre spectacle had been called in by a passenger on the Q, who just happened to be looking up from her magazine at the right time, as the train crossed the Manhattan Bridge. The scene flashed by her so quickly, that she was short on details, but she'd made out just enough to know that, more than likely, it required police attention.

* * *

"Dispatch just radioed for SVU. I'll hang out until they arrive," said Flack as he walked over to where Danny was putting paper bags over the victim's hands.

"Who do ya think they'll send this time? Bowman?" asked the Staten Island native without much confidence. "You shoulda seen the way he interviewed those witnesses last time. I was embarrassed for him."

Flacked laughed as he thought back to his own encounters with "Bumbling Bowman" as he was known throughout the department. "Maybe the new guy will shake things up over there."

Taken aback by this Danny stopped what he was doing for a moment and turned so he was facing his friend. With a shrug of his shoulders he repeated, "New guy?"

Flack nodded his head in annoyance. "Yeah, you didn't hear? SVU got a new boss. Conlan retired."

"He did? When'd that happen?"

Shaking his head, Flack replied, "About a month ago, man."

"Huh, guess I missed that memo," said Danny, as he returned to his work.

"Just that _one_?" said the snarky voice of Danny's partner, Rachel Glass.

Purposely ignoring her jibe, Danny continued, "So, what we know about this new guy? He one of us?"

"Nah, I hear he's from California."

"What makes you so sure the new department head is a man, Flack? It could be a woman," said Glass with a smirk as she looked up from her camera.

Flack was aggravated and didn't bother to hide it. "Was I talkin' to you Rachel?"

"She has a good point though," came an unexpected yet decidedly female voice. "The 'new guy' might not be a guy."

Flack turned in the direction of the voice and with little regard for the tall, dark haired and robust woman who walked towards him, he asked, "And you are?"

"I'm the new guy," she replied with just the faintest hint of a smile playing across her features.

Taking a big gulp of what little saliva was in his mouth, Flack said, "Oh, uh ... sorry … ma'am."

With a straight face and a slight shake of her head, Sydney admonished him, "Don't call me ma'am."

"Sorry … sir."

"I prefer lieutenant," said Sydney as she extended her hand towards Flack. "Lieutenant Sydney Logan, SVU."

Flack met her outstretched hand with his own and was surprised by her firm grasp. "Detective Donald Flack, Junior … ma'am … sir ... sorry."

"Good to know," she said as she released his hand. "I'm guessing you're with Homicide?"

"Uh … yes, sir … I mean lieutenant. I–I am."

Sydney couldn't help but smile at the young detective. He'd been caught talking about a superior officer, which he knew wasn't good. But not only that, he'd been caught by the person whom he was talking about. And that was definitely bad. Before Flack had a chance to salvage the remaining pieces of his ego though, a curly-haired woman, about the same height as Sydney, approached them carrying an old, rusty set of bolt cutters.

"Rachel, you done taking pictures?" she asked. The girl nodded politely, indicating that she was. "Okay then, I guess we're ready to cut her down. Flack, Danny, can you two give me a hand?"

"Whoa! Hold up a minute," said Sydney as she stepped forward to make her presence known to the other woman. Whipping out her badge she introduced herself once again.

The woman smiled and shook her hand. "Detective Stella Bonasera, Crime Lab. Nice to meet you." Laughing a bit she said, "We all thought you were a man."

Smiling slightly herself, Sydney replied, "So I gathered." She paused for a moment, then pointed at the bolt cutters resting on Stella's right shoulder and said, " Anyway, you wanna tell me what's going on here first, before you chop up my crime scene?"

Stella smiled again as she brought the tool down to her side, holding it in a less intimidating manner. "Yeah, of course." Using her free hand, she gestured at the victim. "Um, as you can see, female DB in bondage gear, so this could be some type of S & M stunt gone wrong, or right, we don't know at this point. No ID, so we're dealing with a Jane Doe. A passenger on the subway that runs on the tracks behind us called it in. Other than that, no witnesses. This path is pretty deserted tonight. Since we've been here, we haven't seen any pedestrians. I'm afraid that's all I've got for you."

"Not your fault. I'll start with missing persons; see if I get any hits." Sydney let out a long sigh. She looked at the dead girl then back to Stella. "You'll send me copies of the crime scene photos and any other findings?"

"Absolutely."

"Great. Thanks." And with that, Sydney turned to make the long walk back across the bridge to where she was parked. She kept her face and eyes forward the entire time, in an attempt to see as little of the choppy water below as possible.

"She didn't stick around long," observed Danny as he and Flack helped steady the body while Stella cut through the chain link fence.

"No, but there's really not much for her to go on at this point. Why don't you reserve your judgment, Danny, until after we give her something to run with?" suggested Stella.

"Eh, I suppose."

Glass let out a disgusted sigh and was about to speak when Stella cut her off. "Keep it to yourself, Rachel."

Letting out an even bigger sigh this time, she huffed, "Fine."

* * *

Sydney sat at her new desk in her new office on the twenty-first floor of 5885 Broadway, contemplating whether or not she should turn the bridge case over to one of her detectives. Working a case that involved bridges was really the last thing she needed to be doing right now and so far there wasn't much to go on. The victim still remained unidentified. If this girl had friends or family, they had yet to notice she was gone. None of the reports filed with missing persons matched the victim's description. There were hundreds of different fingerprints and partial fingerprints on the railing and fence where the victim was restrained. It would take a while to pull a list of potential suspects together, and even then it was possible that none of those prints belonged to the killer. The body showed definite signs of sexual trauma, but the killer had been thorough. He made sure no trace of him was left behind on his victim. It frustrated her to do so, but unless she or the CSIs on the case uncovered a "smoking gun," she had to admit it was unlikely that this case would be solved.

With that in mind she made the decision to hand the case off to one of her less experienced detectives. A case like this would be good practice for them. No sooner than she stood up from her desk though, than her phone rang. Another body. Another bridge. Another late night.

* * *

It was a cold and foggy night in the city. The temperature was well below freezing and the air so thick you could barely see the taillights of the car in front of you. Few people were about, having been forced to stay indoors due to the adverse weather conditions. In short it was the perfect night for mischief and mayhem. Under the cover of the dense fog, one could carry out dirty deeds without fear of being caught; deeds that would have been impossible feats otherwise. It was a rare opportunity that only a fool would refuse.

When Sydney saw the positioning of the latest victim, she knew it could only have been accomplished on a night like this. It could have perhaps been accomplished elsewhere, in a less conspicuous location. But to orchestrate such a thing on the George Washington Bridge required that one be patient and wait for the right moment.

Like the first victim, she was a young Caucasian female with an average build. She had no distinguishing characteristics, or at leas none that were visible. Her features were neither unpleasant nor striking. All in all she was completely unremarkable. Except that also like the first victim, she too was dressed in similar S & M style attire. Her corpse donned a black patent leather halter with a pair of matching high-leg briefs, fishnet stockings and black knee-high boots. The similarities didn't end there. She was suspended five feet in the air by her wrists from one of the many pillars lining the pedestrian walkway on the north side of the bridge. Quarter-inch thick chain seemed to be his bond of choice. There was no doubting that this was the work of the same man.

When Stella and her team of CSIs arrived Sydney informed them of what she knew. No ID on the victim, so they were dealing with another Jane Doe. A male pedestrian noticed the body, as he walked across the bridge on his way to work, and called it in. He had been detained and questioned for elimination purposes, but Sydney very much doubted he was their killer. And so, just like the time before, they had no witnesses.

"What makes you so sure he ain't our guy?" asked Danny without bothering to hide the skepticism in his voice.

Sydney was studying the victim intently, looking for anything to aid her search. She didn't hear exactly what Danny said, but she did hear enough to know that she didn't like his tone. "What?" she asked sharply.

Knowing he'd probably crossed a line, Danny quickly rephrased his question. "I uh … I was just curious what it was that uh … made you realize the witness wasn't a suspect?"

"He's five foot six, one-hundred and forty pounds and has a broken arm. It is highly unlikely he could have done _this_," Sydney snapped, pointing her right hand towards the victim.

"Good point." Danny took a step back, pointed over his shoulder and announced, "I'm uh … gonna start processing the scene now."

Sydney let out a frustrated sigh and walked over to the railing to clear her head. The fog was still dense around the bridge, so she couldn't see the water below. She couldn't see anything beyond the railing really. Had she not known she was standing on a bridge, she would have been none the wiser that she was mere inches from a fatal fall.

A few minutes later Stella joined her at the railing. "Looks like we're dealing with a serial. But if the killer was as meticulous with this vic as he was with the first one, then we're going to have a hard time finding him."

Keeping her focus straight ahead, Sydney simply nodded in acknowledgment.

"Everything okay?"

Sydney turned her head towards Stella and replied, "Yeah, fine." She returned her gaze to the abyss in front of her and was quiet for a moment before she spoke again. "You know, if a person didn't know better, they might think it possible to step over this railing and keep on walking … Boy would they be in for a helluva surprise."

Stella thought about what she said for a minute then asked, "Did you know that about ten people commit suicide on this bridge every year? Some people even come from out of state to do it. 'Suicide tourists' are what they're called."

Sydney didn't say much in response, just "Hmm." Stella thought that perhaps she wasn't listening to her, so she began to walk back towards the crime scene. She had only taken a few steps when Sydney turned around and asked, "What did you say?"

Stella stopped and turned back around. "I said ten people throw themselves off this bridge each year."

"No, after that."

"People come from out of state to commit suicide here?" said Stella, unsure if that was what she wanted her to repeat.

Sydney looked up at the victim's body, faintly swaying in the wind. "Out of state. That's it."

"What's it?" asked Stella in confusion.

Walking quickly back to her SUV, Sydney yelled over her shoulder, "We need to expand our search."

* * *

This was Sydney's first visit to the New York City Crime Lab. To say that it was not what she was expecting would have been an understatement. The facility was housed in an old factory that had been converted by the NYPD some forty years prior. The building had a distinctly gothic feel to it. It was cold, sterile and dark. There were hardly any windows except a few in the bullpen that were high up on the walls near the ceiling. Aside from that main room, all the other sections of the lab had low ceilings and narrow corridors. Despite appearances however, the New York Crime Lab was ranked highly among its peers nationwide. Their equipment was top of the line, no expense having been spared. While it was an odd contrast to see such technologically advanced machines in an otherwise outdated setting, Sydney reasoned that this had been a deliberate action. Unless the roof caved in or the foundation gave way, it was unlikely that the city would spend money on new, more extravagant accommodations. _Where_ they did their crime solving was of little consequence as opposed to _how_ they did it.

Nonetheless, Sydney didn't like the place. It made her feel cramped and slightly claustrophobic; sensations that she was already fighting whenever she set foot outside. Now, however, was not the time to dwell on such matters. Stella had asked her to come to the crime lab to examine their findings and hopefully come up with a lead. Sydney met her along with Danny and Glass in the lab's conference room.

"Okay, let's review what we know so far," said Stella. Multiple folders and crime scene photos were spread out on the table in front of her. She picked up two of the photos, one of each victim, looked at them for a moment then passed them around the room. "Both of our vics are young, white females, wearing similar S & M like clothing. Both were found strung up on the pedestrian walkway of a bridge. And they were both raped. We ran their fingerprints and DNA through AFIS and CODIS, but no hits. As for the killer, we don't have anything on him either – no fingerprints or DNA."

"Have we established a motive?" asked Glass as she studied the photos before passing them to Danny who sat on her right.

Leaning back in his chair, Danny answered, "He's some lonely guy who can't get a girlfriend with a bondage fetish. He sees these desperate females as easy targets. He sweet talks 'em, takes 'em home, drugs 'em, and then does his thing." He shrugged his shoulders as if it should have been obvious to her and then waved his hand dismissively. "Boom! There's your motive."

Sydney rolled her eyes at him, but chose not to say anything. Instead she asked a question of her own. "Did the tox screen give us anything?"

Resisting the urge to stab Danny in the hand with her pen, Glass answered, "Yeah, we found traces of GHB in both victims. The drug would've made them more compliant, explaining why we found no signs of a struggle."

"Did we get an official COD from Hawkes yet?" asked Danny.

"He found evidence of pulmonary edema in both vics," replied Stella.

"So they drowned?" asked Sydney, surprised by this information.

"Yeah, why? Is that significant?" asked Stella.

"Yeah, it is. It confirms my theory." Sydney stood up from her chair and walked to the computer cart at the front of the room. "I expanded the missing persons search to a national level and was able to discover the identity of our vics: Jennifer Friel and Renee Platt." The girls' faces appeared side by side on the projection screen. "Jennifer was a graduate student at Case Western Reserve University and Renee was an intern at an ad agency in Dallas. Both girls' lives seemed to be moving along normally until about two weeks ago." Sydney tapped a few keys and clicked the mouse a couple times. The image on the screen changed to a website called _Invitation to a Suicide_.

"What the hell kinda freak show is this?" asked Danny.

"It's a website where you can announce your suicide to the internet community. You can make an anonymous post or use your real name. Lucky for us, our vics used their real names." With a couple more clicks of the mouse Sydney brought up each girls' post. "They listed when and where they planned to kill themselves. Jennifer our first vic planned to jump off the Manhattan Bridge and Renee our second vic was going to jump off the GW Bridge. I'm thinking our killer was familiar with this site. He saw these girls' posts and decided to intervene."

"Son of a bitch," muttered Stella. "So what he approaches them as some 'good Samaritan' and convinces them not to jump? Then when he's gained their trust, which probably wasn't too hard considering the state they're in, he drugs and rapes them?" The tone and volume of her voice rose with each word. "And then when he's finished with them he drowns them, because hey that's how they were going to die anyway?"

"Basically, yeah," replied Sydney. She could tell Stella was disgusted. She was too.

"Man, that is one twisted fuck," said Glass.

Sydney crossed her arms across her chest and said, "Yeah, well, now that we know how he's picking his targets, we can find a way to catch him."

Glass leaned forward in her chair and made a suggestion. "What if we set him up?"

"What are you thinking, Rachel?" asked Danny. The skepticism in his voice was unmistakable.

"I'm thinking we put up a bogus post, lure him out. When he appears, we arrest him."

"It's an idea," agreed Sydney as she walked back to her seat. "We'd have to get Vice involved, so there's actually someone out there waiting for him, and so we can be sure it's him. And we'd have to cross our fingers that no other pedestrians would be around and get caught up in the melee."

"Okay, well if not that, then what?" asked Glass, irritated that her idea hadn't been completely embraced.

"The website logs the IP addresses of visitors to the site. We can see what ones visited both Jennifer and Renee's pages, and if any of them are local," replied Sydney.

"You're kidding right?"

"No. I'm not. Also in the meantime, we monitor the site for any more potential jumpers. He's looking for women who are planning to jump off New York bridges. That narrows it down pretty good. If any come up, we'll be out there waiting too."

"So that's it?"

"Dammit Glass!" Sydney snapped and slammed the palm of her left hand down on the table. "I will speak with Vice. But an op like this is not something that can be coordinated overnight. It will take a couple of days and that is if they're even willing to do it! All right?!"

Glass didn't respond except to nod her head. She may have been too vocal for her own good, but she knew when to shut up. Usually.

* * *

Sydney had no idea what she was going to do with all of the space. She certainly didn't need it. Yet she had purchased an apartment in Manhattan with more than 1,000 square feet of space. Having lived there only a few short weeks, she had yet to properly furnish it. As such it had a cavernous feel to it. Despite not having a sofa to sit on though, she found her home comfortable. It was open and roomy. A place where she could breathe and unwind after a long day at work. A place where she didn't have to worry about bumping into someone else or having her "personal space bubble" violated.

Her intentions that night had been simple: come home, eat dinner, take a long hot bath and hopefully fall asleep before midnight. She managed to do the first three and was just beginning to doze off when the ring of her cell phone ruined any chance of accomplishing the latter. It was Stella, calling to inform her that there was a new post on that website. Another young girl from out of state intended to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge in less than an hour.

* * *

Sydney casually walked down the pedestrian path of the Brooklyn Bridge, grateful she'd had the wherewithal to dress in jeans, sneakers and a hooded puff jacket. She needed to blend in. Although, there were few people about, so there wasn't much to blend in to. Her main concern was that she not stand out or arouse suspicion. They had a chance to catch their killer and she didn't want to fuck it up. She reached the first tower and decided to wait beneath it, hoping it might mask her presence. Her wait wasn't long. A few short minutes later a figure came walking up the path and stopped at the railing about a hundred feet from where Sydney stood. She was motionless for a moment, not knowing whether to be shocked or not by the person she saw. About that same time Stella's voice sounded in her ear.

"I just got word from Danny. It's Glass! She's our jumper."

"I know," replied Sydney in as clear and low a tone as she could manage without giving herself away.

"You know?" asked Stella surprised.

"She just walked up. And I believe our killer has just arrived as well. Standby."

A tall, slender, Caucasian male who looked to be in his mid thirties walked over to the railing and began speaking to Glass. Sydney couldn't make out what they were saying, but she could tell by Glass' performance that the man didn't suspect a set up. Glass attempted to climb over the railing but the man gently tugged her back. She then began wailing and sobbing which in turn caused the man to pull her into a hug. Glass willingly sank into his embrace.

"_Dammit girl! Don't overdo it_," thought Sydney to herself. Under different circumstances the scene before her might actually have been funny. All too quickly though, things turned deathly serious.

Stepping back from his embrace, Glass wiped at her eyes with her fingers. She reached into her coat pocket, and fumbled a bit as if digging for a tissue. What she pulled out however was not a tissue. She deftly whipped out her weapon and aimed it mere inches from the man's forehead.

"NYPD! You're under arrest!" she bellowed.

Surprise and hurt spread across his face, but they were quickly replaced by anger. Snarling at her he grabbed for her weapon. His movement caused her to stumble, leading to a struggle for the gun.

As soon as Glass had trained her gun on him, Sydney signaled for back up and ran towards the brawl. Mere seconds before she skidded to a stop, the man had picked up Glass' weapon from the pavement. Upon seeing her and the gun she had pointed at his face, he yanked Glass up off the ground, set her in front of himself as a shield and jammed the barrel of the gun into the side of her head.

"I'm not going back!" he yelled. And before Sydney could fire off a single shot, the unknown assailant threw himself over the side of the railing and crash landed on the hood of a taxi cab as it passed by on the roadway beneath.

* * *

"What the hell's the matter with you, Glass?!" Sydney heard Mac roar as she made her way across the bullpen to his office.

It was only a few hours after the incident on the bridge and Glass had the misfortune to have a boss who rarely went home at night or even slept. He had been wide awake working on a high priority case of his own when he received word about her rogue operation. Fueled by nothing but eight cups of coffee, Mac was the last person you wanted angry with you at 3:00 A.M.

Pacing behind his desk Mac continued to holler. "You could've gotten yourself and others killed. As it is, we have an unknown male lying dead in the morgue who we _think_ is the killer!"

Defiant to the end and seemingly unaffected by her boss' tirade, she responded, "No one else would act, sir. I thought if there was the smallest chance I could catch the son of a bitch responsible for these murders, then it was well worth the risk."

He stopped his pacing, looked her right in the eye and said in a stony voice, "That was not your decision to make."

"It certainly was not," agreed Sydney as she stepped into Mac's office.

Mac looked at her skeptically, unsure of her identity. "Lieutenant Logan?"

"Yes. Nice to meet you Detective Taylor," she said as she reached out her hand to him. "Although I wish it was under better circumstances."

Mac shook her hand and smirked at her comment.

Sydney tilted her head to her left and asked, "Have you decided what you're going to do with her?"

"I have a good idea of what I'd_ like_ to do," said Mac.

Sydney smiled at that. "May I have a word with you then?"

Mac nodded his head in agreement, then turning to Glass he pointed his finger at her and said, "You're dismissed. For now. But _don't_ leave the lab."

Once she left, Sydney took a look around Mac's office and immediately noticed his military memorabilia. "You're a Marine," she stated, more than asked.

"That's right," said Mac, wondering what that had to do with anything.

"So am I," said Sydney, smiling.

Her remark now making sense, Mac found himself smiling too.

"So, Detective Bonasera tells me that Glass has 'authority' issues."

"That's one way to put it," sneered Mac. He paused a moment to take a deep breath before continuing. "She's a good CSI. She knows how to do her job and she does it well."

"But?" coaxed Sydney.

Mac stood with one hand on his waist, while he ran the other through his hair. "She doesn't get along well with her male co-workers, nor does she take orders well from me. I rarely interact with her. For the past six months she's reported directly to Detective Bonasera. That arrangement seems to work best for all concerned."

"You want rid of her?" Sydney asked bluntly.

Mac looked at her with raised eyebrows.

"I know the regs say she should be fired or at least suspended, but I don't think that's in her best interest."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Transfer her to my team, to SVU."

"Are you serious?" asked Mac in surprise.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I think her 'zeal', shall we say, would be better directed working in SVU."

Mac chuckled to himself and said, "Okay, but only if you're sure."

Looking him in the eye, she said, "I am."

She stood there facing him for a moment then turned to leave, but Mac stopped her by saying, "I hope you don't think that just because you're a Marine, you'll be able to whip her into shape."

"Oh I don't," responded Sydney with a sly grin. "I think I'll be able to because I'm a woman."


	2. Fate

**Disclaimer:** I do not own CSI:NY or any of its characters. Any OCs however do belong to me.

**A/N:** Thanks to my betas, **hope4sall** and **JustCallMeMarly** for your encouragement and advice.

* * *

_Monday, March 17, 2003_

The body lay marred and lifeless upon the cold brick of the small plaza. It stood out stark against its surroundings as there was nothing to mask its presence. No trees or shrubs, no rocks or fences. For now the only thing that shielded it from the eyes of passerby was the darkness of night. But morning would come quickly, and lift its veil.

* * *

Only two months on the job, and Sydney was already hopelessly behind on paperwork. It seemed that there was an endless supply of forms and reports and various other unknown documents coming across her desk each day. She fully intended to lock herself in her office for the entire day and make a serious attempt to downsize the ever-growing tower of papers in her inbox. Her plans, however, were not meant to be. No sooner than she stepped onto the twenty-first floor a call came in requesting the presence of an SVU detective in Central Park. As she had had the bright idea to come into work early and get a head start on that paperwork, she was the only one available. She'd been given an extension; one more day to avoid her paperwork. It wasn't too upsetting. She enjoyed the opportunity to get out in the field (something she didn't get to do very often as department head); but at the same time, it meant another day for more paperwork to accumulate.

* * *

"New York is a little colder than San Diego, isn't it?" asked Mac, observing Sydney rub her gloved her hands together as she approached the crime scene.

"Just a bit. It's only about a twenty degree difference. Nothing I can't handle. Compared to some places I've been, this could be considered warm," replied Sydney, her voiced tinged with sarcasm. "Anyway, what'd you call me out here for?"

"A jogger happened upon a female D.B. this morning," Mac said indicating the motionless form a few feet from where they stood.

Sydney looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue, but he didn't. He simply stared at the dead woman's body, his face unreadable. She looked at the body then back at Mac a few times, trying to figure out what had caused his sudden daze. It was a few moments before he noticed the curious looks she was giving him.

"Sorry," Mac said, looking down as he rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

Sydney asked if he was okay but the tone of her voice lacked genuine concern. Mac said he was fine; however his response was automatic, as if he was a robot programmed to say those exact words every time that question was posed to him. She didn't believe him, but was nonetheless willing to take his _fine_ at face value.

Mac walked over to the victim, bent down and pulled back the flimsy sheet that was wrapped around her torso. "The body was mutilated. As you can see, our killer took some souvenirs."

Throughout her career, Sydney had seen many hideous displays of the malevolence that men were capable of. What lay before her now was rather mild in comparison but it still elicited a feeling of revulsion in the pit of her stomach. The killer had sliced off the woman's breasts. Sydney couldn't help but wrap her hands protectively around her own. A slight shiver went through her body as she thought about what that must have felt like. She hoped for the woman's sake that she was already dead when it happened.

Mac continued, "Judging from the minimal amount of blood, I believe they were removed after she died. Hawkes can confirm that for us. Still, I think we're looking at a secondary crime scene. This isn't where she was killed. It's too clean and the body looks posed."

Sydney walked around the crime scene, looking for anything that might suggest otherwise. It wasn't that she didn't trust Detective Taylor's assessment, but she wanted to draw her own conclusions rather than blindly accept the words of a CSI. Returning her attention to the victim she asked, "Was she dressed like this when you arrived?"

"Yeah, there were no other garments, shoes or anything."

"So no I.D. then?"

"No. We're looking at a Jane Doe." Mac reached over and lifted up the woman's left hand. "However, she's still wearing her wedding ring. A diamond this big has probably been laser inscribed with a serial number. Hopefully we can get an I.D. off of it."

"Good. I guess we can rule out robbery then, since the killer didn't take the ring; although it wasn't on my top five list of possible motives to begin with."

Sydney looked the victim up and down trying to get a sense of who the murderer might be. Was this the working of a serial killer or a spurned lover? Without taking her eyes off of the body she asked Mac, "Any idea how she died?"

"Not at the moment. Other than the removal of her breasts, I see no signs of injury. We'll know more after Hawkes does the autopsy. He should also be able to give us an approximate time of death."

Sydney stood up and brushed off her pants. "All right then, anything else?"

"Yeah," said Mac, rising from his kneeling position. "Did you happen to notice where we're at?" He tilted his head in the direction of a towering structure standing a short distance from them.

Keeping her eyes on Mac, she replied, "You mean did I notice that there's a dead woman, practically naked, with her breasts hacked off lying beneath a giant phallic symbol?"

Mac nodded, and was unable to suppress a slight smile brought on by her sarcastic assessment.

Finally looking up at the object to which Mac referred, Sydney continued, "Yeah, I noticed that. Although before today I was unaware that there was an obelisk in Central Park."

"Cleopatra's Needle," Mac informed her, as he turned to look at the obelisk himself. "It's more than three thousand years old. There are a few different stories as to how it made its way from Egypt to New York, but the official one is that it was a gift. It's stood here on Greywacke Knoll for over one hundred and twenty years now."

"Interesting. So you think it's significant for reasons other than looking like an oversized penis?" She smiled at him mischievously as she waited for his reaction.

Turning back around, he ignored her obvious attempt to make him wince and merely smiled. "Everything is connected, lieutenant."

* * *

"I checked with missing persons but didn't find anyone matching our vic," said Sydney as she and Mac walked through the doors of the morgue. "You'd think the husband would've noticed his wife is missing by now."

"You'd think," said Mac flatly.

As they approached the exam table where their Jane Doe lay, Mac asked, "What do you got for us, Hawkes?"

The medical examiner looked up from the corpse and greeted the two officers with his friendly smile. "Hopefully more answers than questions. Your vic wasn't raped. I didn't find any signs of recent sexual activity, consensual or otherwise."

"Damn," said Sydney, frustrated. "I was hoping we'd get some DNA. What about trace? Find anything under her fingernails?"

Hawkes lifted up the woman's left hand for them to see. "No. There's nothing to indicate she struggled with her killer."

"Then maybe the killer was someone she knew," suggested Sydney.

"Maybe," said Mac. "What about COD?"

"She was poisoned. I found extremely high levels of insulin in her blood stream. She wasn't diabetic nor were there any insulin-secreting tumors in her pancreas. The only explanation for its presence is that she was intentionally injected with it. I found the injection site here on her abdomen." Hawkes handed Mac a magnifying glass and pointed to a small puncture wound below her navel. "Your killer knew what he was doing. The abdomen has the fastest absorption rate. That on top of the high dose she received, death would have occurred quickly."

"Perhaps our killer is a diabetic," said Mac, thinking out loud.

"Or knows someone who is," added Sydney, finishing his thought. "What about I.D.? Did you run her prints through AFIS?"

Hawkes shook his head. "I did, no hits." He was silent for a moment, looking expectantly at Sydney. "Aren't you going to ask about her breasts?"

Sydney's hands instinctively rose to cup her own as she crossed her arms over her chest. "They were cut off, what more do I need to know?"

The relocation of her hands did not go unnoticed by the two men.

"Is this making you uneasy, lieutenant?" asked Mac.

"Wouldn't _you_ feel a little 'uneasy' if this was a man lying here with all of his…junk whacked off? I think you might get a little protective too," replied Sydney, coming across a bit more defensive than she intended.

Mac's eyes were wide and his eyebrows were considerably closer to his hairline than usual, as he turned to Hawkes and motioned for him to continue.

"Well, they were removed post mortem with a serrated blade of some kind. The flesh is ragged and uneven, indicating the killer sawed his way through. Judging from the stops and starts in the cuts, I doubt this was something he'd done before."

"So that could rule out a serial killer," said Sydney. "What about TOD?"

"I'd put it between 12:30 and 1:00 am."

"Okay, anything else?" asked Mac who was anxious to get back to the crime lab and continue processing evidence.

"No, that's everything."

"Thank you doctor," said Mac, as he and Sydney turned to leave.

"I was looking at a map of Central Park and I noticed that the obelisk is in back of the Metropolitan Museum of Art," said Sydney as she and Mac walked through the corridor outside the morgue. "I'm going to head over there and see if they have any security cameras that may have caught some footage of our killer leaving the body."

"Sounds good. I'm going to go back to the lab and see how we're coming on identifying our vic. I'll keep you posted."

"All right, same here."

* * *

A few hours later Sydney returned to the crime lab. She found Mac and the newest member of his team, Aiden Burn, in the layout room, hunched over evidence and peering through magnifying glasses.

"Hey, I got the museum's surveillance tape and dropped it off in the AV lab. Chad said he'd notify me as soon as he finds anything. So, how about the two of you? Any luck on our Jane Doe?"

"I pulled the serial number off the diamond ring and was able to get you a name and address: Allan Seabrook, 35 East 75th, apartment 15 D," said Aiden, as she handed a printout to Sydney.

"That's between Madison and Park," commented Mac.

Sydney looked to him for an explanation of why that was significant.

"It's about a half a mile from where we found the body," he added.

"Well that's convenient; but I still think our killer chose that location for its symbolic reference."

"Certainly," said Mac with a smile, "because it was convenient."

Not wanting to get into a circular argument with Mac, Sydney switched subjects. "So, Allan, our vic's husband perhaps?" she wondered aloud. "I'll get a search warrant and go see if he's home or not."

"I'll join you," said Mac, rising from the stool he was seated on. "Aiden, finish processing the sheet the vic was wrapped in. See if you can find any trace on it."

"You got it, sir … uh, Mac," she replied, shaking her head a bit in embarrassment.

* * *

After securing a warrant, Mac and Sydney headed to the Upper East Side in hopes of finding some more pieces to their puzzle. They rode in silence most of the way. The quiet was only broken by the voices over the radio scanner. Sydney was focused on driving and not really thinking of much else. Her reverie was broken by the sound of Mac's voice. It caught her off guard as he didn't seem the type to make idle chit chat.

"So, how are things working out with Glass?" he asked.

"Hmm? Oh, um … yeah, she pretty much hates my guts and I pretty much don't give a shit."

Mac laughed at this, amused, but certainly not surprised.

"I got her working with Paul. You know, Sergeant Giordano?" Mac nodded his head. "I figured the best way to get her to deal with her male authority issues was to force her to take orders from one."

"How's Giordano taking to that?"

"He's like 'whatever, I got two teenage daughters, so bring it'." Mac chuckled. "He don't put up with none of her crap. It's hilarious to watch." Sydney laughed to herself a bit. A few moments later she asked, "So, how's it with your new detective? Aiden's her name, right?"

"So far she seems to be fitting right in. She transferred from patrol though, so it's taking her a while to get accustomed to how we do things."

"She seems very eager to impress her new boss."

Mac smiled. "She keeps calling me 'sir.'"

"You don't like being called 'sir'?"

"No."

"Me neither…although, I prefer it to 'ma'am'."

Mac gave her a confused look then shook his head in amusement.

The rest of the ride was spent in companionable silence as neither spoke again until they reached their destination several minutes later.

* * *

The pair entered the imposing apartment building and quickly made their way to the fifteenth floor, bringing the building manager along with them in case no one was home.

Sydney tried the polite tactic of knocking first. When there was no response after a few seconds, she banged on door with her fist, shouting: "Open up! NYPD!"

The building manager was an older woman dressed in a tweed skirt suit with her hair coiffed into a tight bun. Her displeasure at Sydney's lack of decorum was noticeably apparent. The pleasant smile on her face vanished leaving her expression stony. Sydney was oblivious to the woman's change in demeanor. Mac however, could barely suppress a grin. He was sure that if someone were to take a hammer to the woman's face it would shatter into a million pieces.

While it may have seemed like an eternity to the manager, this little commotion lasted mere seconds. Sydney quickly determined that either no one was home or if they were, they had no intention of answering the door. She turned to the older woman and motioned for her to open it. The manager brushed passed her giving her a dirty look as she went. Sydney didn't know what to make of it and looked to Mac for an explanation. He just shook his head and mouthed, "Later."

The manager unlocked the door, turned the knob and promptly stepped out of the way. Sydney entered the apartment first, her hand hovering above her sidearm. "NYPD!" she yelled again. "We've got a search warrant!" She produced the document and laid it on the kitchen counter as she walked by.

Mac followed closely behind, carefully observing his surroundings as he went. They cleared the large apartment room by room and didn't find anyone there. However, they did find plenty of evidence to process. Mac popped his silver, metal kit open and got to work. He began in the master bedroom as he noticed that the bed was unmade and the mattress appeared to be missing the fitted sheet. Meanwhile, Sydney searched for anything that could help them identify their Jane Doe. In the living room she found a side table covered in picture frames. She recognized the victim in several of them, but she still didn't have a name.

"I think I found our primary crime scene," Mac yelled, down the hallway. "And the murder weapon," he added as Sydney walked into the room. He handed her an evidence bag containing what looked like an oversized ballpoint pen.

"What is it?" she asked.

"It's an insulin pen. They're a new insulin injection device. The cartridge inside can hold up to 300 units of insulin, enough for several days' worth of doses." Pointing at the evidence, he said, "This one is empty."

Handing the bag back to him, Sydney replied, "But we don't know how full it was when the killer stabbed our vic with it."

"Actually, we do. You see this little screen here?" Mac pointed to a digital display at the top of the pen. "It allows you to track the time, date and amount of recent doses. This pen logged only one dose of 300 units at 12:23 am on March twelfth."

"I'll be damned," said Sydney. "It didn't happen to log the killer's name too, did it?"

"Won't know that until I–."

Mac suddenly stopped short. He and Sydney turned their heads in the direction of the hallway as they heard someone slip a key into the door lock. They both pulled their guns from their holsters and proceeded down the hallway. The door opened and a young woman, possibly late twenties, walked in. She jumped at the sight of Mac and Sydney aiming their weapons at her.

"Oh my god!" the woman squealed, her hand clutching at her chest.

"We're NYPD," said Sydney, flashing her badge. "Who are you? Do you live here?"

"Wha-? N-no, I don't…I don't live here. My friend Deanna does. I haven't heard from her in a couple days, so I came to check on her."

Mac and Sydney lowered their guns, and Sydney asked again, "Your name?"

"Oh, sorry," the woman was still breathing heavily. "My name is Christine Fletcher."

"I'm Lieutenant Sydney Logan and this is Detective Mac Taylor."

Christine shook her head in acknowledgement, trying to make sense of everything. "Did something happen to Deanna?"

Sydney didn't answer but posed a question of her own. "Can you point Deanna out to me in one of these pictures over here?" She gestured towards the table she examined earlier.

"Of course." Christine picked up a silver frame with the word _friends_ inscribed across the top of. It held a picture of her and the victim standing on the beach, arms wrapped around one another with the Atlantic Ocean in the background. "That's Deanna on the right."

Sydney solemnly nodded her head and turned to face Christine. The look on her face must have given her away.

"Deanna's not okay is she? Where…" Dawning spread across her face as she bored into Sydney's eyes. "She's dead isn't she? Oh my god, she's dead." Christine began pacing around the room, tears streaming down her face. "I knew it, I knew he was gonna do it!"

"Knew who was going to do what?" asked Sydney, her gentle expression turning severe.

"Allan! Her husband! I _knew_ he was going to kill her!"

"What makes you think it was her husband?" asked Mac.

"She was divorcing him and taking him for everything he had. Allan Seabrook's not the type of man to take that lying down."

Mac and Sydney exchanged a glance. The husband was looking more and more suspicious.

Remembering the insulin pen he found under the nightstand in the master bedroom, Mac asked, "Is he a diabetic?"

"No, not that I'm aware of. Why?"

Mac looked at her apologetically and replied, "I'm afraid I can't say."

"Do you know where we can find him?" asked Sydney, rather quickly. She wanted to forestall any complaints from Christine about not giving her all the facts of her friend's death.

"Uh, yeah. He's the CFO at Parsons and Greer Investment Firm."

"All right, well, we will go have a talk with him. In the meantime let's call you a cab? Okay?" Sydney smiled at her sympathetically and gently patted her shoulder.

Christine just nodded her head, as she bit her lower lip, in a futile attempt to repress her tears.

"Can I get your number in case I have any more questions from you?" asked Sydney.

Christine reached into her purse and produced a business card. "You'll have better luck reaching me on my cell rather than at work. I'm rarely at my desk and I'm not good about checking my voicemail."

"Okay, thanks. And here is my card if you need to contact me for any reason," said Sydney as she withdrew one from the pocket inside of her coat. "I'm sorry you had to stumble upon this, but you've been a really big help."

The young woman shook her head in acknowledgement and took a seat on the couch as Sydney pulled out her cell phone to call for a cab. Mac was about to return to the master bedroom to continue searching for evidence when Christine began to speak.

"Life is strange, you know?" she wiped at the corners of her eyes with a tissue. "Deanna thought she was safe. I tried to warn her about Allan, but she wouldn't listen to me. She was convinced that nothing would happen to her, that _fate_ wouldn't allow it. She'd already had one brush with death and survived, so surely she'd live to be an old woman. For as long as I've known her, she's always been arrogant like that. I knew it would get her into trouble one day."

"One brush with death?" asked Mac, curious about her statement.

"Yeah, she worked in the South Tower at the World Trade Center. She barely made it out of there before it collapsed."

Mac was visibly shaken by this, but he quickly steadied himself. "Was she married at the time?" he asked in as nonchalant a voice as he could muster.

"She was. She and Allan had been married about a year at the time."

_Hmm_ was Mac's only response. He stood there frozen, staring down at the floor seemingly probing it for answers.

Christine was oblivious to this as she was lost in her own thoughts. This exchange, however, did not go unnoticed by Sydney. It was obvious that something was eating away at the man. As for what that something might be, she had no idea. Quite frankly, unless it began interfering with her case, she didn't care to know. She had enough problems of her own to deal with.

Sydney snapped everyone out of their reverie when she spoke. "Your cab should be here momentarily, Christine. Would you like me to escort you outside?"

"Hmm? Oh, no, I'll be fine. Thank you though." Christine stood up and walked to the door. Before stepping into the hallway, she turned back to Sydney and said, "Promise me you'll catch the son of a bitch who did this."

"I promise," said Sydney in all sincerity. She never made a promise she didn't intend to keep.

* * *

After Christine left, Mac and Sydney resumed searching the apartment for clues that might lead them closer to finding Deanna's killer. Sydney looked through some filing cabinets in the study and found a copy of the Seabrooks' prenuptial agreement. If the victim's husband was indeed the killer, then Sydney had just found an excellent motive. In case of a divorce, Allan had agreed to compensate Deanna by giving her a lump sum of one million dollars and full ownership of their luxurious apartment.

Mac finished processing the bedroom and moved into the master bath. As he did not find any bloodstains in the bedroom, he assumed the victim's breasts were most likely removed in the bathroom, where clean up would have been easier. He sprayed the bathtub with Luminol and found that it was positive for blood.

"Hey Mac, you done here?" Sydney called out, as she walked back into the apartment.

Mac came walking down the hallway from the bedroom, arms full with evidence bags. "Yeah, I am. Could you give me a hand taking this down to the truck?"

"Sure." Sydney picked up the rest of the bags and followed Mac outside. "I talked to some of the neighbors, but no one heard or saw anything out of the ordinary the other night."

Mac just shook his head in response.

Sydney continued, "Anyway, I thought I'd drop you off at the crime lab, and then pay a visit to Mr. Seabrook."

"Actually, if you don't mind, I'll turn the evidence over to Aiden so I can accompany you."

Sydney was both surprised and slightly annoyed by this. "You want to come with me when I talk to the husband?"

"Yeah, is that okay?" The irritation in Mac's voice was barely discernible.

"Fine." Sydney wanted to say more, but she held her tongue. She thought CSIs liked to stay in their labs, yet Mac seemed to want to do her job as well.

* * *

Parsons and Greer Investment Firm was housed in one of the many skyscrapers littering Manhattan's Financial District. It was late in the day when Mac and Sydney arrived. Many people were already leaving their offices and heading home. It was unlikely that Allan was among them however, since he was the Chief Financial Officer for a large company.

Mac and Sydney got off on the twenty-sixth floor and walked over to the front desk. "Hi, I'm Lieutenant Logan and this is Detective Taylor. We're with the NYPD. We'd like to speak to Allan Seabrook. Is he available?" Sydney asked as she flashed her badge to the receptionist.

"Do you have an appointment?" the older woman asked, without looking up from her work.

Sydney dropped her smile, put her hands on her hips and replied, "No, but it's an urgent matter regarding his wife. If he's here, we need to speak with him. Now."

Still keeping her head down, the woman said, "If you don't have an appointment, there's nothing I can do for you."

Raising her voice, Sydney said, "Wrong answer. Let's try this again shall we? Take us to Allan Seabrook."

Unaccustomed to her sour demeanor being an ineffective deterrent, the receptionist yielded by saying, "Of course, ma'am. This way."

She directed them down a long hallway at the end of which was the CFO's office. The door was open, so she walked right in and announced their presence. "Sorry to bother you sir, but there are a couple of police officers here who insisted on speaking to you."

Allan Seabrook stood from his desk and flattened his tie against his shirt, not looking the least bit nervous. "Thank you, Nancy." Stepping out from behind his desk he motioned for Mac and Sydney to enter. "How may I help you officers?" He may have addressed both of them, but he looked to Mac for a response.

This did not go unnoticed by Sydney who glowered at him before beginning. "We're here about your wife."

"My wife? What about her?"

"When did you last see her?"

"I'm not sure, a couple of weeks ago maybe. We're going through a divorce, so we're not exactly on friendly terms," Allan answered with a bit of a laugh.

Mac, however, was not at all amused. "You're wife is dead." His voice, forceful and blunt, had a sobering effect on Allan.

Allan seemed to be taken aback and confused by this. "Dead? What are you talking about?"

Mac spoke without a hint of compassion. "Your wife was found dead in Central Park Monday morning."

"Oh my, I...Deanna's dead? Wow!" Allan ran a hand through his hair, his eyes darting back and forth between Mac and Sydney. "I um…I don't know what to say…"

"Why don't you start with telling us where you were around midnight on Monday," said Sydney, who wasn't buying his paltry display of grief.

"I was at the Crowne Plaza Hotel, in bed. I've been staying there since Deanna and I split, until I can find a new place."

"Can anyone confirm that?"

"What? Do you think I killed Deanna?!"

"I don't know. Did you?"

"I don't like what you're insinuating, Lieutenant."

"Hey, if you're not guilty, why not give us your fingerprints and a DNA sample, so we can rule you out as a suspect?"

Allan stood there for a moment, regarding Sydney and her offer. He seemed to be weighing his options, trying to decide what the most beneficial course of action would be for him. "Fine. Do whatever you need to."

* * *

"He's lying," Sydney said in annoyance as they walked back to her SUV.

"I would agree, but we're going to have to let the evidence prove that," replied Mac.

"He didn't seem too broken up over it."

"No he didn't. But he did willingly submit his DNA and fingerprints."

"Doesn't mean he's innocent, cocky bastard."

"No, it doesn't. I think he's betting that he covered his tracks and that we won't find anything to connect him to the murder."

"Well let's hope he slipped up, 'cause my gut's telling me he's our guy."

* * *

"Aiden, tell me you got something that will prove the husband did it," said Sydney, sounding exhausted, as she and Mac walked into the layout room of the crime lab.

"I don't have anything on him, but I do have something on his mother," Aiden replied.

"His mother?" This was not what she expected to hear.

"Yeah, the insulin pen Mac found was prescribed to Lydia Seabrook, age eighty-five, and resident of the Vintage, an assisted living retirement home up in Albany. I spoke with her nurse who told me that one of Mrs. Seabrook's insulin pens went missing around the time her son visited her a couple of weeks ago."

"Were there any fingerprints on the pen?" asked Mac.

"None."

"So we can't definitely place it in Allan Seabrook's hands."

"Maybe not, but that should be enough to give us probable cause and obtain a search warrant," said Sydney.

Blatantly ignoring her, Mac asked, "What about the blood samples I collected from the bathroom, was there any foreign DNA in it?"

"No, it all was a match to the vic."

"Dammit!" Mac slammed his hands down on the counter. "All that evidence I collected and we've got nothing!"

Mac's sudden outburst caught Sydney off guard. "Whoa, Mac! I wouldn't say we've got nothing. The insulin –"

Not hearing a word she said, Mac cut her off. "The museum surveillance video, have you watched it yet?"

"No, I-"

Mac quickly exited the room, and practically ran towards the AV lab, with Sydney right behind him. "Chad, the surveillance video from the Met," he barked.

"Uh, hey, yeah, I've got that right … here." Chad fumbled about his computer for a moment before finally bringing up the right video. "Okay, so the museum's cameras have an excellent view of the obelisk. The victim was discovered at 6:03 that morning as you can clearly see here. I went back through the tape and found that she was there since 1:37 am." Chad rewound the footage to the segment that captured Deanna Seabrook's body being deposited beneath the obelisk by a person wearing a dark hooded sweatshirt.

"Can we get a close-up on our suspect?" asked Mac.

"Uh, yeah." Several keystrokes and mouse clicks later, Chad had a clear picture of the suspect.

A look of satisfaction spread across Mac's face. "Got him."

* * *

The damning footage of Allan Seabrook dumping his wife's dead body in Central Park was more than enough to obtain warrants for his arrest and the search of his office and hotel suite. All three were processed swiftly and diligently. Irrefutable evidence in hand, Mac and Sydney walked into interrogation, ready to squeeze a confession out of their detainee.

Laying out several evidentiary photographs on the table in front of Allan, Sydney got right to the point. "The knife we found in your desk has your wife's blood on it as well as her mammary tissue. We know that's what you used to cut her breasts off. We found those as well, in your freezer."

Unabashed by this declaration, and seemingly unruffled by the more horrific pictures, Allan countered, "That doesn't prove anything. Someone else could have put it there to frame me."

"_Could have_? You don't sound convinced of your own story."

"Reasonable doubt. It's all a jury needs. You didn't find my prints on the knife, did you?"

Neither Sydney nor Mac responded to this. While it was true that they did not, they wanted to lull him into a false sense of security, even if it was only for a moment.

Taking their silence as an affirmative to his question he sneered, "You've got nothing."

"I wouldn't say that." The derision in her voice was contrary to the smile that graced her features. She slid another photograph across the table.

As she did so, Mac said, "We've got you on tape leaving her body in Central Park."

Allan was clearly unsettled by this, but he persisted. "Still doesn't prove I was the one to kill her."

Sydney continued to mock him. "So you had an accomplice then? Your mother perhaps."

"What?!" They were closer to the truth than Allan had anticipated.

"It was one of her insulin pens that was used to poison your wife," said Mac, his patience wavering. "You didn't know we had that did you?"

"I don't have anything more to say, except that she got what she deserved. I wish she'd died on 9/11 like everyone else, then I wouldn't be sitting here right now!"

"You son of a bitch!" growled Mac. "You were given a second chance that was denied to many of us and you took it for granted."

"Hey, if I could have traded places with someone, believe me I would've."

At those heinous words Mac reached across table and grabbed Allan by the collar of his shirt. Before Sydney knew what was happening, Mac had the man shoved up against the wall.

"Whoa! Hey! Let him go Mac!" Sydney ordered as she moved to restrain her colleague.

Hearing the commotion, the officer who was standing watch outside the door rushed in. On Sydney's command he hauled Allan out of the interrogation room.

As soon as the door slammed shut, Sydney rounded on Mac and unleashed her temper. "What the hell's the matter with you?" she barked. "Are you trying to get our case dismissed?"

Mac looked up to meet her gaze. She had more to say but when she saw the look in his eyes, all of her anger and frustration fell away.

"My wife, Claire, died on 9/11." He said nothing more, offered no further explanation for his behavior. None was needed.

Sydney understood immediately, possibly better than anyone else, and certainly more than Mac realized. "Why don't you let me finish this up?"

"No, I'll be okay."

Sydney smiled weakly. "I was being polite. I'll finish the interrogation on my own."

"Fine," said Mac. He walked out of the room, head down, shoulders slumped, defeated.

* * *

"Hey Mac," said Sydney as she stood in the doorway to his office.

Without looking up from the file he was holding he replied, "How'd it go?"

"He called for his lawyer. I couldn't really get much more out of him. But I talked with the DA and she's pretty confident we'll get a conviction."

"Good."

Sydney turned to leave but hesitated for a moment. Mac noticed this out of the corner of his eye. He watched as she stood on the landing outside his door, the palm of her right hand patting the railing. He knew what she was doing. She was debating whether or not to offer him her condolences. He assumed that in a few seconds she would turn around, walk back into his office and say something considerate. They all did. Whenever anyone found out about his wife they always felt compelled to let him know he had their sympathy. But he didn't want their sympathy. Didn't give a damn about it. He knew the only reason they did it was because they would feel guilty if they didn't, not because they actually cared. Sydney surprised him though. She didn't turn back around; instead she walked down the short flight of stairs and made her way towards the elevator without ever saying a word.


	3. Forging Ahead

**Disclaimer:** I do not own CSI:NY, JAG, NCIS or any of their characters. Any OCs however do belong to me.

**A/N:** Thanks again to **hope4sall **for beta-ing. You've been a great help!

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_Thursday, July 31, 2003_

Sydney lingered in front of the mirror as she got dressed for the day ahead of her. It was not like her to do so. She didn't like spending more time than necessary on her appearance. She certainly wanted to look good, fashionable even. But she had no desire to stand and admire herself once the task was finished. She'd look herself over quickly to make sure nothing was out of order and leave it at that. She didn't have time to dawdle or preen and even if she did, well, it just wasn't something she'd do.

This morning was different. This morning she turned thirty-five. This morning she was reminded of how her life had been de-railed. This morning she was not where she always thought she would be when she reached this birthday.

She stared at her reflection, not sure if she recognized the person who stared back. Everything _looked_ the same, save for a few fine lines and a strand or two of gray. But not everything _felt_ the same. She felt different. She was different. And it wasn't a good different.

Sydney reached for the small orange bottle standing next to her toothpaste, looked at the label that had her name printed across it and said aloud, "Who am I?"

* * *

"Gorgeous day," observed Stella as she and Sydney stepped outside the main doors of the New York City Supreme Court.

It was a nice day in New York, weather wise. The temperature was hovering around eighty degrees and there was a light breeze to take the edge off any discomfort one might be feeling from the heat. It was a shame to have to be cooped up inside on a day like this. Yet Sydney and Stella had spent the better part of it in a courtroom.

"Mm-hmm," replied Sydney as the two of them walked towards Stella's department issued Envoy. Her response was not so much one of agreement but acknowledgement. She really had no opinion about the beauty of the day one way or the other. But, not wanting to say as much or to appear rude she decided ambiguity was her best option.

Thinking nothing of Sydney's indifferent response, Stella continued. "Days like today, I don't mind the heat. But when the humidity's high too…" she paused and shook her head in disgust, "ugh, I can't stand it."

Luckily for Sydney, she was spared the obligation of a reply as her cell phone began ringing. She pulled it out of her back pocket before climbing into the passenger seat. Taking a look at the caller ID before answering it, she wasn't surprised at _who_ was calling but that they were just _now_ calling. Smiling halfheartedly, she flipped open the phone and said, "Hi Dad."

Their conversation was short and to the point. Stella had just buckled her seatbelt when it began and by the time she'd pulled into traffic and driven half a block, it was over. In that short amount of time it was agreed that he would meet her at the crime lab rather than her office, as he was running ahead of schedule and Sydney was running behind. It would save time for all concerned. He would be spared a drive through the heart of Manhattan during the evening rush hour and Stella would be spared from going out of her way to drop Sydney back at her office.

Glancing over at Sydney, Stella asked, "Your dad?"

"Yup," was all Sydney said at first. She could tell that Stella was expecting her to say more, but she hesitated. A few moments later, she added, "Today's my birthday. He drove up from Virginia to take me out to dinner tonight."

"Oh, wow. That's nice of him." Stella turned to her and gave her a quick smile before returning her attention to the traffic in front of her. "Where are you going?"

Sydney shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. It's a surprise."

"Ooo, that should be fun."

Sighing, Sydney said, "Yeah, we'll see."

"You're not so sure?" asked Stella curiously.

"Eh, my dad can be … overbearing at times." Sydney paused for a few moments as she considered how best to explain without revealing too much. "I dunno … he's just been super attentive and _involved_ in every aspect of my life lately."

As Sydney spoke, her thoughts drifted back to a conversation she'd had several months prior. It was a few days after Christmas and she was sitting on the sofa in her father's living room, staring at a clear glass bulb hanging on the Douglas Fir, and watching the tree lights play off it.

"What are you going to do with the Corvette?" asked her father as he leaned against the archway separating the living and dining rooms.

Without taking her eyes off the ornament, she shrugged and said, "I don't know."

Standing up straighter and crossing his arms over his chest, he asked, "Well you weren't planning on keeping it were you?"

Sydney knew her father didn't want her to keep the classic car, but she didn't want to let it go. It had meant a lot to the original owner, and therefore it meant a lot to her as well. She knew better than anyone else how much time and sweat had been put into restoring the vintage beauty, so she couldn't see giving it away to some stranger who had no appreciation for its true value.

Taking her silence as a _yes_, her father continued, "You shouldn't keep the car, you should sell it." Seeing that she still had nothing to say, he added, "I can take care of it for you. You won't have to worry about it."

She knew he was right, that it was best she not keep the car. Yet despite her father's good intentions, she had mixed feelings about his involvement in the situation. Part of her was somewhat relieved that he'd handle all the details and paperwork. But another part of her was irritated that he was taking so much upon himself. Not having the energy or desire to argue the point though, she just nodded her head and said, "Fine."

Her thoughts returning to the present, she added, "I know he means well, but its starting to make me nuts … you know?"

Keeping her eyes on the road in front of her, Stella replied, "No, I uh … I don't."

Surprised by her solemn answer, Sydney turned her head to get a better look at Stella.

Sensing the questioning eyes that laid upon her, she took a deep breath and explained. "I don't have parents ... I was an orphan ... grew up in foster care."

"Oh. Shit … sorry."

Stella assured her it was okay, but an awkward silence hung in the air for a few minutes as neither knew what to say next. Sydney didn't want to ignore what had just been shared with her, but she didn't want to linger on it either, in case Stella didn't want to say any more about it. She felt she needed to say something, but the only thing she could think of was, "Would you like to meet my dad?"

* * *

Mac looked up from his computer screen at which he'd been staring for the last hour. He rubbed his tired eyes and surveyed the crime lab through the glass walls of his office. Looking out into the bullpen he saw a tall, balding man in Navy Summer Whites, with a lot of brass on his shoulder boards and cover, standing in the center of the room. The man stood out completely from his surroundings and Mac wondered what business would bring a naval officer to his crime lab. Intending to find out, Mac stood up from his desk, straightened his tie and walked out of his office. As he approached the man, he asked, "May I help you, sir?"

The older gentleman was standing with his hands behind his back, holding his cover in his right hand. He turned to face Mac and replied, "No, thank you. I'm just waiting for my daughter."

"Your daughter?" asked Mac in surprise.

Nodding his head in the direction of the elevators, he said, "There she is."

* * *

As Stella and Sydney emerged from the elevators, Sydney immediately spotted her father talking to Mac on the other side of the room. "Crap," Sydney muttered. "He's here already."

Stella smiled at her and said, "Well, if he says anything, blame it on me. Tell him you were delayed because I drive slow or something."

"Thanks," said Sydney before taking a deep breath and walking over to meet her father.

"You're late," he scolded as she and Stella approached him.

"Hi dad. Nice to see you too," she replied. They stood facing one other for a moment, as if they were sizing each other up. After a few awkward seconds, Sydney turned to Mac and said, "So, I see you've met my father."

Looking back and forth between Sydney and father, trying to make sense of what he'd just witnessed, Mac answered, "Actually, we hadn't gotten around to introductions yet."

"Oh, well then, let me. Mac, Stella, I'd like you to meet my father, Admiral A.J. Logan, Judge Advocate General of the United States Navy."

Mac's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "He's _the_ JAG?"

"Mm-hmm," Sydney answered nonchalantly. "Dad, this is Detective Mac Taylor, he's head of this crime lab, and this is one of his CSIs, Detective Stella Bonasera."

The three of them exchanged greetings and handshakes. Mac seemed interested in talking more with Sydney's father, but a call came through on his cell phone that he couldn't ignore. It was just as well. Sydney could tell her father was eager to get going. Their reservations were for eight o'clock and he hated being late.

* * *

Upon leaving the crime lab and before going to dinner, Sydney and her father stopped by her apartment to change and freshen up. Sydney had been hoping to avoid a visit to her apartment by her father. In the seven months she'd been living there, she had yet to properly furnish it, let alone decorate it. Her biggest piece of furniture was her king sized bed and that only consisted of a mattress, box springs and frame. When her father informed her a few days prior that he intended to spend the night when he visited, she rushed out to buy an air mattress for him to sleep on. She knew this would not go over well and was dreading the conversation it would set off. Sure enough, upon entering her apartment, the first words out of her father's mouth were, "Why don't you have any furniture?"

Sydney knew the question was coming but she didn't have an answer prepared. She just let out a long sigh and walked back to her room to shower and get ready. Before closing her door behind her she called out, "I put towels out for you in the hall bath if you want to wash up before leaving."

* * *

Dinner was a mix of long silences punctuated by conventional conversation and thinly veiled suggestions, on how Sydney could improve her life, disguised as casual comments. Throughout the course of the evening she had to endure remarks such as, "You should check out the sales they're having at Ethan Allen. I got a great buy on a leather recliner there," or "Have you been to the paint section at Home Depot lately? They have every color imaginable."

Everything her father said, she knew, was meant to be helpful, but Sydney was beginning to tire of his helpfulness. She appreciated her father's concern and knew she was lucky to have such a loving parent, yet she couldn't help feeling suffocated by all the attention. She worried that if she didn't show enough interest or enthusiasm in what he was _suggesting_ that she'd come home one day to find her apartment completely furnished and decorated. She wouldn't put it past him; after all, he'd done this kind of thing before.

It was a few days after their conversation about the Corvette. Sydney mentioned in passing that even though she was moving to Manhattan, where most people used public transportation, she still wanted a personal vehicle of her own. Her new position entitled her to one issued by the NYPD. She declined it however, opting to provide her own instead. They gave her the choice of a Chevrolet Impala or a GMC Envoy. She didn't like either option though, citing that they were too small and cramped for her taste. She would be living and working in a cramped city, and had no desire to drive around it in a cramped car. Logically, she knew it made more sense to drive a smaller, more maneuverable vehicle, but she couldn't get comfortable with the idea.

Sydney had every intention of going car shopping and buying one that suited her needs. However, she apparently did not act fast enough or show enough enthusiasm where her father was concerned. Early the following morning he knocked on her bedroom door and asked if she wanted to see what kind of year-end deals the local GM dealer was offering. She merely grunted in response, annoyed at being disturbed before 10:00 A.M. A few hours later, after she had gotten up, showered and dressed, she heard the sound of her father's Cadillac in the driveway. Wondering where he had gone, she went to find out. She was halfway down the stairs when her father came in the front door and said, "Good, you're up. There's something I want you to see outside."

Not sure what to make of this, she hesitantly followed him, but when she stepped onto the front porch and looked around, she saw nothing out of the ordinary. Her father turned to her with a bit of a smile on his face, dropped a set of keys in her hand and said, "She's all yours," as he pointed at the black Escalade sitting in the driveway.

Taken aback by this, Sydney asked incredulously,"You're giving me your SUV?"

"What? No. This is yours. I just bought it for you."

Sydney looked at her father in shock. "You what?! Why?"

Without bothering to hide his annoyance, her father responded, "You're moving to New York in two days and it didn't seem like you had any plans to buy a car yourself."

Sydney wanted to argue the point but realized it was easier to just let it go. Her father had done her a favor. He'd saved her the hassle of doing it herself. She took a deep breath, let out a long sigh and asked, "So, how much do I owe you?"

"Fifty," he casually answered.

"Fifty?" she repeated in disbelief. "Shit, dad, you had to go and buy the most expensive SUV you could find, huh?"

Shaking his head at her, he said, "I got you a deal on this. Ten grand below sticker price."

Sydney rolled her eyes. "Oh well then, in that case…" Seeing a faint look of hurt on his face, she quickly added, "Thanks dad," as she smiled and jingled her new car keys.

* * *

He'd meant well then and she knew he meant well now, but she needed him to back off. The problem was how to tell him. It was times like these when…

"I wish your mother was here," said her father unexpectedly. He'd taken the words right out of her mouth, so to speak. "She would be able to handle all of this better than I have."

Sydney didn't know what to say to this, so she said nothing. She had a close relationship with her father, yet they rarely discussed anything of a personal nature. She wasn't entirely sure how her father felt about it, but she knew that for her, it made her uncomfortable. Being open with him about her thoughts and emotions felt awkward. Even after the death of her mother, their arrangement didn't change. She'd observed her father with tears in his eyes on a few occasions in the days, weeks and months following her death, but she never actually saw him cry. The most he ever said was that he missed her.

Sydney cried openly at her mother's funeral and her father had comforted her by putting his arm around her and pulling her close to him. But that had been it. He offered no other hugs or words of comfort. And as time moved on, he never asked how she was doing. It wasn't that he didn't care, but because he had never been good at talking about his feelings and emotions. He never said as much, but Sydney assumed it was the case.

They both sat in silence for a few moments, lost in their thoughts. Sydney's mind flitted from one memory to the next, making seemingly random associations between people, places and events. One face in particular flashed across her mind. She didn't know why, but she found herself relating details about this person to her father. "You know Detective Taylor, the guy you met at the crime lab today?" Her father nodded. "He's a widower too." After a few moments she continued, "His wife died on 9/11." Sydney stared at her water glass slowly running her finger around the rim. "He's a Marine too," she added with a bit of a smile. Her father smiled at that as well.

* * *

As Sydney lay in bed that night, she replayed the day's events in her mind. Everything that had happened told her she needed to make some changes in her life. But it was her encounter in Mac's office. just an hour before, that was foremost in her thoughts. After dinner, she remembered that Mac had some paperwork for her that she needed to turn into human resources first thing in the morning. She'd intended to do it that afternoon, but quickly forgot when she saw her father and Mac talking. Sydney didn't know if she'd have time to take care of it before work, so she asked her father to swing by the lab on their way home.

It was eleven o'clock at night and Sydney wondered if Mac would still be at work or not. She'd heard that some evenings he never went home opting to sleep on the couch in his office instead. As she walked towards his office, she noticed that only his desk lamp was turned on. She opened the door quietly so as not to disturb him if he was asleep. Sure enough, there he was, passed out on the small black leather sofa. His right arm hung over the side and a case folder lay on the floor beneath his hand, where he'd most likely dropped it in his sleep.

She went over to his neatly organized desk and quickly found the documents she was looking for. She slipped them in her oversized handbag and then made sure she left his desk exactly as she found it. As she walked back towards the door, she couldn't help but stop and stare at Mac as he slept. He looked uncomfortable on the tiny couch and Sydney wondered how he was able to get any rest. For a brief moment she wondered why he didn't go home, but then a flickering light outside his office glinted off his wedding band and she immediately understood. The small couch may not have been the most comfortable, but at least he was able to sleep on it. He probably had a nice, big, cozy bed at home, but she doubted he found rest in it. Suddenly feeling overwhelmed with sorrow, she picked up the blanket lying in the armchair and draped it over Mac's sleeping form. When he would wake in the morning, he would assume it was Stella who laid the blanket over him.

* * *

"So I did some thinking last night," Sydney began as she and her father sat across from each other in a small diner where they were having lunch. "And I decided that I need to make my home a _home_." Her father didn't say anything, just smiled at her, happy to know she was moving forward. "I'm going to give Dominique a call later and see if she wants to help me decorate. I'm sure she'll say yes, she really likes that sort of thing. She and Tony have been bugging me about birthday plans, so maybe I'll have a painting party or something. With their help I should be able to get all the rooms painted pretty quickly." Sydney paused for a moment, laughed and said, "The hard part will be picking out the colors."

Laughing and smiling a bit too, her father said, "Good. That will be good. I'm sure the three of you will have a lot of fun."

"Hopefully, although you know how well Dominique and Tony get along." Her father rolled his eyes. He knew. Everyone knew. "Maybe I should invite another person to even things out a bit. Stella maybe. You know the curly haired woman I introduced to you yesterday?" Her father nodded. "I think I'll ask her to come too. "

"I think that's a good idea," said her father. He then took one last sip of his soda before sliding out of the vinyl booth. "Well, I better get going if I want to avoid afternoon traffic."

Sydney slid out of her seat as well and followed him outside. "Thanks again for dinner. I'm glad you came. Sorry I didn't have better sleeping arrangements for you though."

Her father just winked at her saying, "I've had worse."

They stood on the sidewalk outside the diner for a few moments just looking at each other and not saying anything. There were so many things they both wanted to say, but didn't know how. Finally, Sydney did something she hadn't done in years. She stepped forward, wrapped her arms around her father and said, "I love you, daddy."

Surprised by her show of affection, but not opposed to it, he put his arms around her, kissed the top of her head and said, "I love you too, sweetheart."

* * *

**A/N:** For any JAG fans, Admiral Logan is Admiral Chegwidden. I had to change his last name though. My OC's name could not be _Chegwidden_. It works for the Admiral alone, but not for anyone else. It's too much of a mouthful ;o)


	4. Waste

**Disclaimer:** I do not own **CSI:NY** or any of its characters. Sydney Logan and any other OCs however do belong to me.

**A/N:** Sorry for the delay in updating. This one took me a little longer to plot than I expected. Hopefully it was worth the wait. As always thanks to my wonderful beta and good friend **hope4sall**.

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* * *

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_Saturday, November 1, 2003_

The alley seemed to stretch on forever. Standing at the mouth of it, one could barely see the opening at the other end. It was a bright, sunny day in New York City, but in this small sliver of space, you would never have been able to tell. The surrounding apartment buildings towered high above, blocking out most of the sun's light. Holding his black Mag-Lite above his right shoulder, Mac walked slowly through the filth littering the passage from end to end. The sound of skittering of rats accompanied him as he went.

He stopped midway down the alley in front of a rusty, beat up, gray dumpster. He set his aluminum case on the ground and made a mental note to disinfect the bottom of it with some bleach later. He reached into his pockets and pulled on a pair of latex gloves before raising the lid of the dumpster to see what was inside. He knew already, had been told what to expect, but it didn't make the sight any easier. A young girl, maybe fourteen years old, was slumped in a heap amongst the garbage. The surfaces, inside and out, were grimy from years of uninhibited use, and it showed on the girl's once dazzling white outfit. He stepped away for a moment to retrieve his camera and briefly wondered how her body was discovered. The alleyway was certainly not a high traffic area and it was unlikely that anyone who would have business there would be inclined to inform the police of strange activity.

He went back to the dumpster and began photographing the scene. Her midsection was buried under a black trash bag. Mac moved it out of the way and discovered that the girl was wearing a karate gi. He thought this was an odd choice of clothing at first, but then remembered that Halloween had been the night before. He reasoned that it was probably her costume. Looking at it more closely though, he noticed that there was some sort of patch or emblem on the right side of the jacket. Smoothing out the wrinkled fabric revealed an embroidered logo he'd seen somewhere before. A knot began to form in his stomach as he remembered why the design was familiar to him.

Two months earlier, at a quarterly staff meeting between all major department heads and Chief Hillborne, Mac had taken a seat next to Sydney. Throughout the three hour ordeal he observed her sketching Chinese or Japanese characters in the margins of her copy of the chief's ten page agenda. It caught his attention and for a moment he wondered if she could speak another language. He quickly dismissed the idea though and returned his attention to the chief who was emphasizing the importance of item three on page seven. It was either something about gun safety or sexual harassment in the workplace, Mac really had no idea.

Afterward, when the meeting was finally over, and Mac was gathering up his things, Sydney turned to him unexpectedly and asked, "What do you think makes for a better slogan for a martial arts class – strength or peace?"

Caught off guard by her question, it took Mac a minute to respond. "Who's the class for?"

"High school girls in the Bronx," Sydney replied. "I'm going to be teaching a self-defense class at the local Y. I wanted a slogan that was simple yet significant. I've narrowed it down to those two." Holding up her agenda, she smiled and added, "But, as you can see I've been tossing around several ideas."

Mac returned her smile and replied, "Go with _peace_."

Sydney set her agenda back down on the table and studied it for a few seconds. "Yeah, I think I will. Thanks."

* * *

Halloween was always Sydney's least favorite holiday. She never much cared for it growing up, and now as an adult working in law enforcement, she pretty much hated it. Criminal activity seemed to increase ten fold. All throughout the night there was an endless stream of robberies, break-ins, assaults, brawls – you name it, someone probably called it in. Reports of sex crimes and attempted sex crimes against women and children were more widespread as well. Uniforms and detectives were worked overtime and even a few higher ranking officers found themselves pulling doubles, even triples. Sydney was no exception.

It was early Saturday morning when Sydney finally went home. She didn't bother to wash her face or brush her teeth first; she just stripped off her clothes and climbed into bed. Her alarm wasn't set as she wanted to sleep as long as her body would allow her. She had no plans for the day so it really didn't matter how long she slept. Several hours later, though, and much too early for her liking, her slumber was rudely interrupted by the shrill ring of her cell phone. She growled beneath her comforter before reaching out a hand in search of the errant device. Seizing it from her nightstand, she flipped it open and snarled, "What?"

Less than thirty seconds after answering the call, Sydney was wide awake, out of bed and in the shower. Six minutes later she was dressing in her closet and four minutes after that she was walking out her front door.

* * *

It was thirty two minutes from the time Mac called Sydney, notifying her of the dead girl, to the time she pulled up next to his SUV, parked in a rundown Bronx neighborhood. Mac met her as she stepped out of her vehicle, nodded his head in the direction of the alley and said, "She's this way."

Sydney followed him down the dark path in silence. Even in the dim lighting that would have obscured any emotions she might have betrayed, she maintained a stalwart posture. Her face was unreadable, a normally instinctive manner for her. But in situations like this, where she potentially knew the victim, it took more conscious effort. Clenched fists were the only reaction to belie her anxiety. If Mac noticed, he didn't let on.

Upon reaching the dumpster, Mac stopped, turned to look at Sydney and waited for her assent before raising the lid. She nodded without hesitation, switched her flashlight on and stepped forward to examine the body. She shined her light directly on the girl's face, illuminating her ebony skin. There was no doubt, no mistaking it – she was one of Sydney's girls, one of her students. She stood there silently for a full minute, staring at her, willing her to wake up, all the while knowing she never would.

"Do you recognize her?" Mac gently asked.

His words brought her out of her daze and she replied, "Yeah . . . I do. Her name is Ariauna. Ariauna Marshall." She sighed as she ran a hand over the top of her head then asked, "Who found her?"

Mac shook his head and answered, "I don't know. It was an anonymous tip."

Sydney stepped back from the crime scene and shined her light around the passageway. She wondered what happened that caused Ariauna to end up dead in a dumpster in an abandoned alley. She was a promising student who had her whole life ahead of her – this was not how it was supposed to end.

Looking at her sympathetically, Mac assured her, "I'll see that this case has priority."

Sydney smiled weakly and said, "Thanks." She stared at Ariauna's lifeless body for a few more seconds then said, "I guess I better notify her family."

As she turned to leave Mac said, "I'll call you as soon as I know anything."

Sydney nodded in response and began the long walk back to her SUV, dreading the phone call she was about to make. But she had to do it. It wasn't something she could avoid or postpone.

* * *

Telling a sixty-seven year old woman that her granddaughter was dead, was not something you did over the phone. When Sydney called Ariauna's grandmother, she tried not to alarm her, but told her that she needed to talk to her about her granddaughter and would prefer to do it in person. Loretta Marshall was more than happy to oblige. She was a kind and cheerful woman who could always bring a smile to your face, even in the darkest of times. She'd faced many dark times herself and somehow had managed to get through it all without letting herself be hardened by her experiences. She'd passed this trait, along with many others, onto her granddaughter. She hardly ever heard a cross word spoken about Ariauna. She was a sweet and intelligent girl, liked by all who met her. So, if someone wanted to stop by for a chat about her pride and joy, Loretta couldn't be more pleased.

Sydney could tell by Loretta's pleasant demeanor over the phone and the friendly smile on her face when she answered the door, that she had no idea something terrible had happened to her granddaughter. Sydney hated being the bearer of bad news in cases like these. Hated shattering people's worlds. She wished there was some way she could allow this woman to live on in blissful ignorance. But there wasn't and this was part of the job. Yet no matter how many times she did it, it never got easier. There was no _easy_ way to tell a person that a loved one was dead.

"Good to see you Lieutenant Logan." Loretta held the door open and motioned for Sydney to come inside.

Sydney simply nodded her head, saying only, "Mrs. Marshall." Her expression was blank as she did her best to keep her emotions in check.

Waving her hand dismissively she said, "Please, call me Loretta. And, I hope you don't mind me saying this, honey, but you are such a beautiful young woman – you should smile more." Winking, she added, "You'll never get a man to put a ring on your finger if you're always walking around with a frown on your face."

A stunned laugh escaped Sydney's mouth. "_Did she really just say that_?" she thought to herself. Shaking her head and trying to ignore the comment she reminded Loretta that she was there to talk about Ariauna.

Noticing that Sydney's solemn demeanor didn't waver, Loretta sensed that this was an important matter and quickly became more serious. "Is this a conversation that Ariauna should be a part of too? Because she's not here right now. She should be home this afternoon though. Spent the night at a friend's and I think they were going to go to a Halloween party or something. Probably stayed up all night eating candy and watching scary movies." She shook her head and rolled her eyes. "You know how teenagers are?"

Oblivious to Loretta's remark, Sydney pulled a pen and notepad out of her jacket pocket and asked, "Do you know the name of the friend she was supposed to spend the night with?"

Caught off guard by the question Loretta hesitated a moment before answering. "Um . . . yeah, her friend's name is Tierra Carter."

"Can I get Tierra's phone number and address from you?"

"Of course." Loretta walked into the kitchen and retrieved a sticky note off the refrigerator. She returned to the living room and handed it to Sydney. Looking genuinely concerned she asked, "Is something wrong?"

Swallowing hard, Sydney nodded her head and said, "Yeah, there is."

Sydney had Loretta take a seat on her sofa. Sitting down next to her she began to tell in the gentlest way she knew how that her granddaughter would never be coming home. A myriad of emotions spread across the older woman's face – disbelief, shock, pain and anguish. "How can this be happening?" she repeated, over and over. Sobs wracked her body until she was too tired to move. Sydney sat with her throughout, knowing this woman was now alone, having no other family to comfort her.

Sydney stayed with Loretta until friends arrived, not wanting to leave her by herself. Before going, she crouched in front of her, took her hand in her own and said, "I promise I will find the person who did this."

* * *

Sydney had only wanted to ask Tierra a few questions, not interrogate her. But when she saw her shaking hands, bloodshot eyes and otherwise disheveled state, sympathy turned to suspicion.

"You don't look so good," observed Sydney from where she stood looking down at the girl.

"I'm sick," Tierra said in defense, as she sat slumped on the couch, clutching a toss pillow to her chest.

Sydney narrowed her eyes at Tierra. "You mean hungover?"

Tierra didn't say anything in response but squirmed about on the couch, trying to make herself more comfortable. She kept her head down, avoiding Sydney's gaze.

Remaining harsh, yet hoping to play on her emotions, Sydney said, "Your friend is dead, Tierra. I need you to talk to me."

Still not wanting to look at Sydney, Tierra nodded her head in compliance as tears began streaming down her face. Choking back sobs she recounted the events of the night before. "My sister's boyfriend was having a Halloween party at his place and I talked Ariauna into going. People were drinking and smoking and getting high, but Ariauna wouldn't do any of it. All I saw her doing the whole time we were there was dancing . . . I remember a while later she found me though and told me she was feeling tired and was going to find a place to lie down . . . I didn't see her again until. . ."

"Until what?"

"It's all so blurry . . . I don't really know exactly what happened but . . ." Tierra paused to take a deep breath. "I remember looking into one of the bedrooms and seeing her lying on the bed with my sister's boyfriend on top of her. He was yelling at her and shaking her. I don't know what happened after that."

"I do," said Tierra's sister, Patrice, as she walked into the room. "My boyfriend, Trevor, he tried to tell me that he heard her coughing really loud and was making sure she was okay, but that's not what it looked like. . . It . . . I don't know . . ." She shook the memory from her head and wiped at the corners of her eyes with her fingertips. "Anyway, she was dead. I told him we should call 911, but he wouldn't let me. He said we'd get arrested for making alcohol and drugs available to minors. So he dumped the body in that alleyway."

"You were the anonymous tip, weren't you?" asked Sydney.

"Yeah." Patrice looked down at the floor, shaking her head. "I couldn't do that to her grandmother. She babysits my son for me sometimes. She takes care of my kid. I should've taken better care of hers."

"Where's Trevor now?" asked Sydney in hopes that Patrice's remorse outweighed any feelings of loyalty she might have towards her boyfriend.

* * *

Sydney's phone rang for the third time in the past hour and for the third time in the past hour she rejected the call without bothering to see who it was. Right now she was more concerned with her suspect who sat alone in the interrogation room.

For the last ten minutes she'd stood on the other side of the glass observing him as she flipped through his record. He had a rap sheet going back eleven years to the age of thirteen. Vandalism, theft, drunk and disorderly, drug possession, driving under the influence, driving while intoxicated, and receipt of stolen property were among the many charges that had been leveled at him over the years. It wasn't the offenses that Trevor Robinson had been convicted of that surprised Sydney. It was the one's he hadn't even been charged with. None of his crimes had been violent ones. If Robinson was indeed the killer, she expected to see a pattern to his behavior. She expected to see such charges as assault and battery or assault with a deadly weapon or domestic disturbance. Yet there was nothing in his record to indicate he had violent tendencies. Robinson was no role model but an accusation of murder seemed out of character for him. Nonetheless, Sydney knew there was a first time for everything. Criminal record or no, she didn't put murder past anyone.

Sydney walked into interrogation room, case folder in hand and sat down across from her suspect without saying a word. She sat there for a few minutes, just looking at him and not speaking.

Robinson shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and rolled his head from side to side as he looked around the room. Finally, unable to take the silence anymore he asked, "You got some questions for me or are you just gonna sit there and stare at me the whole time?"

Sydney smirked at him and said, "I hear you and your girlfriend had a party last night. Wanna tell me about it?"

Robinson shrugged. "Yeah, we had a party. Invited some friends over, had a few drinks, listened to some music, played some _Grand Theft Auto_ – that was about it."

"You sure?" She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a disbelieving look.

"Yeah."

Sydney leaned forward in her chair and rested her forearms on the table. "Did you know that one of your guests was found dead this morning in an alleyway not far from your apartment?"

Shaking his head, he said, "No."

She opened the folder, pulled out a photo of Ariauna that her grandmother had loaned her, and slid it across the table. "You recognize her?"

He took a quick look at it then said, "Nope."

"Really? Because according to your girlfriend and her sister, she was at your party last night."

"Maybe she was, but I don't remember seeing her."

"No?" Sydney asked in mock surprise. "That's strange because I have eyewitnesses who saw you sitting on top of her while she was lying on your bed." The contempt in her voice rose with each word she spoke. "Care to explain that?"

Robinson slammed his fist down on the table and yelled, "I didn't do anything to that girl!"

Sydney was about to respond when someone banged on the door. Frustrated that she was being interrupted she pushed her chair back from the table, the metal scraping against the concrete floor as she did. In a huff she walked over to the door, swung it open and barked, "What?"

Standing on the other side, jaw clenched and brow furrowed was Mac, holding out a thick case folder. "Here you might need this."

Sydney grabbed the folder out of his hand and began flipping through it, briefly glancing at the DNA results and trace analysis. She stopped when she got to the autopsy report. A frown appeared on her face as she read Hawkes' conclusions. She sighed and looked up at Mac. "Are you sure about this?"

"Absolutely," replied Mac, still seething with anger.

Turning her back to him, she returned to the interrogation room and kicked the door shut behind her.

* * *

Sydney sat at her desk, mindlessly tapping her pen on a stack of papers as she looked out the window at the New York skyline. From start to finish the day had been a disaster. It began with the death of one of her students and ended in a heated argument with one of her colleagues. It had been almost an hour since she and Mac had exchanged words in the middle of the 12th Precinct, but her blood was still boiling from the encounter.

On her way out of the interrogation room, after finishing with Robinson, Mac confronted her. "Why didn't you wait for me to analyze the evidence before making an arrest?"

Squaring her shoulders she asked, "Was I supposed to?"

"You arrested a man for murder without any solid evidence that he committed a crime."

The skin around Sydney's eyes drew tight. "Are you questioning my judgment?"

"I think this case was a little too personal for you and you made some hasty decisions."

"Whoa! Hold up a minute!" Sydney snapped. Her hands rose to her hips as she leaned in towards Mac and said, "It's not like I arrested some random guy off the street. She died in his apartment, during his party at which he allowed his guests to smoke cigarettes, weed and god knows what else, which according to the autopsy report _you_ gave me is what triggered her asthma attack and led to her death."

Mac shook his head. "If she'd had her inhaler with her, she would probably still be alive. It's not his fault that she didn't. If you're going to try and blame him for her death, then you're going to have to go after the people who were smoking in his apartment as well. By your standards they're just as culpable."

"So what? You're on his side? Are you forgetting that he dumped her body in that alley and didn't bother to call 911?" She drew in her breath and sneered. "When he first realized she was in distress he should've called for help. He didn't. He let her die and then he threw her away like she was a piece of trash."

"Hey, I don't deny the guy's a scumbag, but he's no murderer. If there had been evidence to prove he was guilty of murder, I would've found it." He pointed a finger at himself then leveled it at Sydney. "But you obviously let your emotions guide you on this case when you should've followed the evidence."

"I did follow evidence!" The sound of Sydney's voice echoed off the walls of the narrow hallway. Somewhat startled by her own vehemence, she shook her head and said, "You know what? This is ridiculous. I don't have to justify myself to you." And with that she turned and walked away.

* * *

Sydney shook the memory of the argument from her head. She wasn't proud of her actions. Mac was right, she moved too quickly in her investigation. She was looking for someone to blame and Trevor Robinson met all the requirements. In the end, however, he wasn't guilty of murder and even negligent homicide would be a hard sell to a jury. She had him on corpse abandonment though. There was no shaking that charge. Likewise, there was no shaking what Sydney needed to do next.

She picked her cell phone up off her desk and flipped it open to check the time. It was a few minutes after 2:00 A.M., a little late for a phone call, even by New York standards. But Sydney very much doubted that this person was asleep. And even if they were, they needed to talk. She searched through her call history, found the number she wanted and pressed the dial key. A weary voice answered on the other end. Sydney took a deep breath before saying, "Loretta, this is Lieutenant Logan. I have some information to share with you."

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading! Please take a minute to visit my profile and read _A Message to the FF Community_.


	5. Don't Want To

**Disclaimer:** I do not own **CSI:NY** or any of its characters. Any OCs however do belong to me.

**A/N: **Thanks to **hope4sall**for beta'ing. I would not have finished this without your support :o)

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_Tuesday, February 17, 2004_

It was an entirely common occurrence. Things like this happened all the time, especially in an overcrowded city like New York, where tempers ran hot and patience ran thin. It was the kind of thing that, after witnessing a few times, you would just ignore. Under normal circumstances, no one would have paid any attention to this incident. But these were not normal circumstances. When two senior members of the NYPD openly argued in the middle of the crime lab, everyone within earshot dropped what they were doing to catch a glimpse of the exchange.

The deep timbre of Sydney's voice rattled the walls of Mac's office as she spoke. A natural mezzo-soprano, her pitch tended to drop into the alto range when she was angry, a feature that generally served her well as it made her words more menacing. "The investigation wasn't yours to lead. You collect the evidence, analyze it and present your findings to me. Then _I_ decide when and how to proceed, not you."

Mac fired back immediately and with equal force. "As head of the crime lab, I can decide whether or not I want to move forward with an investigation. I don't need approval from you first."

Sydney became indignant at Mac's words and her hands didn't know what to do with themselves. One moment they were planted firmly on her hips, the next they were gesturing wildly in the air. "So what, are you just going to railroad me every time my department gets a case that you want to investigate personally?"

He stood up from his chair, slammed both palms down on his desk and retorted, "I did not railroad you."

She mimicked Mac's stance as she moved closer to his desk, placed both hands on the surface and leaned forward so that his face was mere inches from hers. She could almost taste the flavor of wintergreen Lifesaver's that lingered on his breath. "Like hell you did!" she spat.

The close proximity of her face to his seemed to have no effect on him as his response was measured and immediate. "When we first met at the crime scene we agreed that this would be a joint investigation, did we not? Or have you developed a case of selective memory?"

Before Sydney could respond however another voice joined the din. "Hey!" barked Stella.

Mac and Sydney turned their attention to the doorway and snapped in unison, "What?"

Stella walked into the room and in a low voice she hissed, "Do you two realize the entire lab is watching your little show? Knock it off or take it elsewhere."

Sydney had more to say. A lot more. But it would have to wait. She stepped back from Mac's desk, squared her shoulders, shot him a dirty look and left.

Stella waited for the lab personnel to return to their duties before speaking. Her tone was gentler this time but still firm as she said, "You know, Mac, whatever the problem is between the two of you, you've got to find a way to deal with it, because this has got to stop."

"_But I don't want it to_," thought Mac to himself.

While he would never admit it to anyone and he barely admitted it to himself, Mac enjoyed arguing with Sydney. In a strange way it made him feel alive again. Arguing with her reminded him of arguing with his wife. Not that he enjoyed arguing with Claire or that he looked fondly on the times he'd yelled at her. But it was still a memory from when she'd been alive and from when Mac's life had been happy. He missed everything about her, the good and the bad, because all of it made her who she was, the woman he loved. It was an odd thing to focus on he knew, but it was something. Something that helped ease the pain of losing her. And right now he'd take whatever he could get.

* * *

The following night, as had become their routine over the past few weeks, Stella joined Sydney for dinner at her apartment. It started out as a single invitation to see her new furnishings and quickly turned into a weekly event. The two women had discovered that not only did they enjoy working together, but that they enjoyed socializing in their off hours as well.

After finishing their dinner of grilled salmon with rice and sautéed vegetables, Stella felt it was only polite that she assist Sydney with putting away leftovers and loading the dishwasher. Handing Sydney a rinsed plate, she asked, "So, what's going on with you and Mac?"

Sydney wasn't entirely surprised by Stella's question. But although she had been expecting it, she was still hoping to avoid it. Without looking up from what she was doing, she replied, "What do you mean?"

Stella rolled her eyes, as she dried her hands on a towel. "You two are always arguing. The past few months I don't think I've seen you guys do anything but argue."

Sydney just shrugged her shoulders and said, "He and I have different ideas about how to run investigations. I don't like his procedures and he doesn't like mine, or so it would seem."

Sydney wasn't really sure what was going on with her and Mac. It was true, they argued. A lot. But she really didn't know why they argued so much or at least why their arguments always got so heated. Until now, she really hadn't given much thought it to it. Arguing with a coworker was a normal occurrence at any job. Yet she knew if Stella was saying something to her about it then it must be bad. She and Mac had definitely gone beyond the bounds of professionalism. Arguments that started behind closed doors, ended in the middle of the crime lab, outside of the precinct, or even at the scene of an investigation. The more Sydney thought about it, the more surprised she was that it had taken this long for someone to say anything. If she and Mac were still in the Marines, they would've received a dressing down from their superior officers after their first public clash in November following the Marshall case.

"I don't think that's it," said Stella, snapping Sydney out of her reflection.

Sydney heaved a deep sigh and asked, "What is it then?"

Stella placed one hand on her hip and leaned against the other one which she rested on the granite countertop. "I don't know but this is about more than just a disagreement over methods and protocols. You're both by the book, so I really don't see what there is to disagree on, at least not as vehemently as the two of do."

Sydney avoided her friend's gaze and busied herself with organizing the glasses and plates in the dishwasher. "Well, I don't know what to tell you, Stella. Mac just bugs me. He's always got his nose in my investigations and it irritates the hell out of me."

Looking down at Sydney who was still crouched over her Whirlpool appliance, Stella shook her head and said, "Then talk to him about it. And I mean _talk_ without raising your voice and yelling."

Rising up and slamming the door shut she said, "Okay, fine . . . god. Can _we_ talk about something else now, please?"

"Sure." Stella inclined her head towards the island counter across from her where Sydney's purse sat and grinned. Winking, she said, "I really like your handbag. Mind if I steal it?"

* * *

Sydney had left Stella with the impression that she would speak to Mac in the coming days. However, a week later she had yet to do so. She knew they had issues that needed resolving, but talking to Mac about it was not something she wanted to do. She doubted it was something he wanted to do either. So instead she had simply avoided him.

But that solution only worked for so long, until events like quarterly staff meetings with the chief cropped up. It would last three hours at most and if she was lucky, she could get through it without having to speak to Mac. As it was, she arrived just moments before Chief Hillborne called the meeting to order, preventing the possibility of an encounter between them. She determined that when the meeting concluded she would leave immediately and not stick around to chat with her colleagues as she usually did. If anyone tried to stop her, she'd tell them she had a pressing matter to deal with back at her office. Her plan was foolproof, or so she thought.

She was halfway to the door when Hillborne called their names. "Taylor, Logan, I'd like to talk with you both for a minute."

For the first time in days, Mac and Sydney exchanged glances. They both suspected they knew what this was about.

The chief waited for everyone else to clear out of the room before he began. "It has come to my attention that the two of you are having some difficulty getting along with one another. Care to elaborate?"

Mac and Sydney were both silent for a moment, neither wanting to answer the chief's question, hoping the other would speak first. Seeing that the chief was quickly losing patience, however, Mac decided to answer. "We don't always see eye to eye when conducting investigations, sir."

Hillborne stood with his arms crossed over his chest, looked to Sydney and asked, "Is that it?"

"Basically," she replied.

"All right, well, let me be clear, I don't care if the two of you don't like each other's methods or if you just flat out don't like each other." Hillborne's eyes roamed back and forth between Mac and Sydney as he spoke. "The fighting in front of junior officers, and, from what I understand, even civilians, ends here and now." He pointed at the floor then at the two of them. "You will learn to get along peacefully. And to facilitate that I am highly suggesting that you attend the _Conflict in the Workplace_ seminar at the NYPD convention next week. Together."

"Yes, sir," replied Mac and Sydney together.

Satisfied with their response, the chief turned and walked out, leaving Mac and Sydney to glare at one another.

* * *

"I do not want to be here," groaned Sydney as she stood outside of the hotel conference room's doors.

"That makes two of us," said Mac as he brushed past her into the room.

Taking a deep breath she followed Mac inside to where he was standing by the refreshment table at the back of the room. She noticed that he poured himself a cup of black coffee with two sugars. Before she could stop herself she was turning her nose up at his beverage. "Yuck, that's gotta taste like crap."

Mac turned toward her slowly with an annoyed look on his face and glared at her.

"Sorry," she said, her cheeks reddening slightly. She looked away as she picked up a Styrofoam cup and added, "I didn't mean for that to come out of my mouth."

Mac started to say something but stopped, shook his head and walked away towards the rows of chairs lining the room. Sydney followed a minute later with her own cup of coffee, that she had emptied four containers of cream into, and a chocolate donut on her finger. She took a seat next to Mac, who looked over at her cup and said, "Yuck," before taking a sip from his own.

Sydney shook her head and chuckled. "I deserved that."

A few minutes later, some ridiculously upbeat instrumental music began filling the conference room. Sydney heaved a big sigh and Mac couldn't help but laugh to himself at her reaction. The speaker bounded onto the stage with a wide grin plastered across his face. He hadn't even begun speaking yet, and already things were worse than Sydney had anticipated. The man made his introductions then asked everyone to do the same with those they were sitting next to. Handshakes and standard greetings were reluctantly exchanged amongst the crowd. Only a few people felt it necessary to introduce themselves to more than the obligatory two or three. Once the over zealous had finished with their how-do-you-dos, and retaken their seats, the speaker launched into his discourse. Sydney almost immediately began tuning him out. Here and there she caught a word: "…don't compromise, collaborate…"; "…listen to the opinions of others…"; "…find healthy outlets for your frustrations…"

For his part, Mac appeared to be listening intently, although he looked incredibly bored. Sydney reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a pen and notepad. On it she drew two parallel horizontal lines and two parallel vertical lines. She discreetly passed the notepad to Mac. He ignored her at first, but she persisted by poking him in the side with her pen, which made him jump slightly. He gave in for fear that her next attempt to get his attention, might arouse the attention of everyone else as well. And so the morning passed with the two of them feigning interest in the speaker and his lecture. All the while they were playing tic-tac-toe, hangman and any other game they could think of.

After two hours of repetitive lecturing, they were given a fifteen minute break to use the bathroom, stretch and refill their coffee cups.

"I'm getting tired of tic-tac-toe," said Sydney as she stood up and began walking towards the exit. "I think I'm going to run out to the newsstand and get a puzzle book."

Mac followed behind her and said, "We really shouldn't be playing games. We're here to learn, not goof off."

Sydney turned to look at him and asked, "So you don't want a puzzle book of your own then?" For the umpteenth time that day, Mac just glared at her. She shrugged her shoulders and replied, "Suit yourself."

* * *

As soon as the speaker began his PowerPoint presentation, Sydney opened her book and began working a Sudoku puzzle. She caught a word here and there to make sure she wasn't missing anything important. Not surprisingly, she wasn't. She left Mac alone and didn't bother him when she needed help on a difficult puzzle. After a half hour of monotonous slides Mac was getting fidgety. He'd look over at Sydney to see what she was working on every so often. He'd offer his help here and there. Before long he was working on a puzzle of his own, which Sydney had been kind enough to rip out of the book for him.

Mac tried to focus on the puzzle but as he stared at the numbers and boxes his mind began to wander back to a conversation he'd had a few days earlier.

It was a Saturday night and Mac just happened to be home at a decent hour. A rare occurrence these days. He'd sorted his mail, done a few loads of laundry and paid his bills. He was just deciding what to have for dinner when his doorbell rang. Mac wondered who it could be as he rarely got visitors. Opening the door he found one of his former band mates. Every so often, Rob popped by to try and convince Mac to start playing bass again.

"C'mon Mac," he pleaded. "Everyone misses you down at Cozy's."

Mac stood in the doorway to his apartment and said, "I don't think so Rob. I appreciate the invitation, but maybe some other time."

Leaning against the doorframe, Rob said, "You said the same thing six months ago when I asked you to play with us."

"And I'll probably be saying it again another six months from now," replied Mac. He stepped back and began closing the door. "I don't want to do it."

"Fine," said Rob. As he turned to leave he added, "Guess I'll see you in August."

Playing bass in the band at Cozy's every Wednesday night had been Claire's idea. Being the overextended social butterfly that she was, she felt it was important that her husband be involved in at least one extra-curricular activity. He had a natural talent when it came to music, so when she heard that a local band was in need of a back up bass player, she jumped at the opportunity for him.

Mac would've been lying if he'd said he hadn't enjoyed it. He always looked forward to Wednesday nights. He'd leave work a half-hour early, pick up Claire, run home to change and then take her out to dinner at a nice restaurant before heading over to the club. She'd sit at a reserved table with the other band member's wives and girlfriends, sipping at her cocktail and gazing upon her husband as he skillfully strummed the strings of his bass guitar. Mac remembered those nights more than others. Those nights were just about them. He may have been playing in front of a crowded room, but she was the only one he noticed. He played for her and she smiled and applauded for him. Only him. She heard every note and felt every beat that rose beneath his fingers. She knew when he was on key and when he wasn't. Ask her any question about Mac's performance and she could answer it. Ask her about the other musicians and she would reply with a dreamy look in her eye, "What other musicians?" She was completely, passionately and intimately in love with her husband.

Many of those nights ended with them in a tangle of bed sheets, covered in each other's sweat. Claire would have had one too many Cosmopolitans and Mac, one too many beers. She'd slide off her barstool, sidle up next to him and whisper in his ear, her warm breath tickling his skin. She'd ask him to strum her like he strummed his guitar and he'd be powerless to refuse.

Mac savored those memories most of all.

* * *

Unbeknownst to Mac, thoughts of a similar nature were weighing heavily on Sydney's mind as well.

The night before, her long time friend and former college roommate, Dominique Dane, had asked her to go shoe shopping with her after work. Having nothing else to do and being a firm believer that a woman can never have too many shoes, Sydney had agreed to join her.

For most of the evening the conversation had been light. Dominique bemoaned the hardships of working on Madison Avenue and gushed about the cute, new ad exec that her company had hired. Here and there Sydney would interject a word or two about what was new with her, but for the most part she just listened and laughed at her friend's stories and antics.

In many ways the two women were like night and day. Dominique was far more frivolous and feminine than Sydney could ever pretend to be. And Sydney was more brusque and practical than Dominique would ever dream of being. Yet they were best friends and enjoyed spending time with each other more than anyone else they knew.

So when Dominique would broach a subject that Sydney didn't like discussing, Sydney would give her more leeway than she would others. She knew that even if she didn't like what her friend had to say, that it still came from a place of love and concern. As much as she might want to at times, that was a fact that could never be overlooked.

Dominique fastened the strap on a creamy pair of Jimmy Choo silk satin sandals with four and a half inch heels and asked, "Remember how you used to sing every so often at that jazz club in La Jolla?"

Looking at her Manolo clad feet in a nearby mirror, Sydney replied, "Yeah, what about it?"

Joining her in front of the mirror, Dominique said, "I was just thinking about it the other day, how you were really good and the audience always loved you."

Sydney just shrugged and walked back to her chair, saying, "Okay."

Dominique modeled for herself in the mirror and asked, "You ever think about doing that again? There's lots of jazz clubs in this city. I'm sure you'd have no trouble finding one that could use a new voice."

Taking the designer shoes off and putting them back in their box, she said, "Uh . . . I . . . I don't know. It's been so long and I really don't have the time."

Turning around to face her friend, Dominique put her hands on her hips and said, "Oh please, you're no busier now than you were then. Besides, I think it be good for you."

"Dom." Sydney sighed in frustration. "I'm just not…"

"Look," Dominique cut her off as she walked over and kneeled in front of her. "I understand things have been difficult for you, but it's time to move on."

Locking eyes with her brunette friend, Sydney said, "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I don't want to sing. All right? So please, just drop it."

* * *

Nearly four hours later around noon, the group was given an hour and a half reprieve for a lunch break. Several attendees shot out of their seats as soon as the speaker concluded. Some stayed back and milled around, waiting to see what others were doing for lunch. A few even took the time to talk with the speaker and ask him some questions.

"So that was about as fun as watching paint dry," Sydney grumbled as she stood up from her chair and stretched.

"I don't know," said Mac in mock seriousness as he rubbed the back of his neck. "I think watching paint dry is actually more fun."

Sydney sat back down and twisted in her chair, cracking her back. A rippling noise traveled all the way up her spine. "I can't believe we have another three hours of this."

Mac winced at the sound of crunching bones and asked, "Do you think another three hours will help us get along better?"

"No," scoffed Sydney.

They both sat quietly for a few moments, lost in thought and staring off into space.

Then, turning his head towards Sydney, Mac asked, "How about we call a truce and skip the afternoon session?"

"I'm open to that," she replied. "But what are we going to do the next time you try and take over one of my investigations."

"I don't know, probably the same thing we do when you don't wait for me to analyze the evidence."

"We've obviously learned a lot today, haven't we?"

"Yeah, the chief will be pleased." Mac fell silent again, then after a moment he asked, "Are you hungry?"

"Very."

He stood up and looked down at Sydney. "Wanna get something to eat? We can figure out what we're gonna do over lunch."

"That is an excellent idea," she said as she rose from her chair.

"You like cheeseburgers? There's a place not far from here, P.J. Clarkes." Mac winked, adding, "Best cheeseburgers in the city."

* * *

"Were you serious about skipping the rest of the seminar?" Sydney asked after the waitress returned to the kitchen with their orders.

"Absolutely," replied Mac as he took the wrapper off of his straw. "But we still need to 'resolve our differences' or the chief will have our asses.

Sydney sat back in her seat and rested her head against the vinyl back of the booth. She took a deep breath before beginning. "I'm not used to having CSIs working so _closely_ with me on investigations and even leading their own at times. In San Diego our CSIs were civilians. They weren't detectives as well. So this has been an adjustment for me."

"I admit I like to be highly involved in all the cases I process and sometimes I get a little more involved than necessary," explained Mac. He smirked and added, "Since you shut me out of the Marshall case, I've been dogging your heels to make sure that doesn't happen again."

Sydney shook her head and chuckled. "So if I agree to include you in my investigations will you agree to give me some breathing room?"

"Yeah, I can agree to that."

"So you and me, we're cool?"

Mac laughed at her choice of words. "Yes, we're _cool_."

"Cool."

Except for a word or two, here and there, Mac and Sydney sat in silence until their food arrived. No sooner than it did, though, then Sydney's phone rang.

"Ugh, you gotta be kiddin' me," she said in frustration as she dug in her pocket for the device. She checked the caller ID before answering. "Hey dad, I'm at lunch, can I call you back? ...What about it?" She sighed and rested her forehead in her free hand as she listened to her father's answer. "You told me you'd take care of everything and that I wouldn't have to go back there . . . Well what all do I have do to? Just sign some paperwork? I don't actually have to see the house do I? . . . What?! . . . Well can you come with me? . . . I guess. I don't really have a choice, do I? . . . Mm-hmm . . . Yeah, I guess . . . love you too," she added, although it didn't sound like she really meant it. She snapped her phone shut and stared at her warm plate of food without touching it. After a few minutes she excused herself from the table and walked to the back of the restaurant where the restrooms were.

Mac was almost done eating when she returned several minutes later. He glanced at her briefly and noticed that her eyes were red and somewhat puffy. Something was obviously wrong. "Everything okay?" he asked, more out of courtesy than concern.

Sydney didn't answer except to shake her head _no_. Mac knew it was callous of him, but he was relieved that she didn't want to talk about whatever was upsetting her. He finished off his few remaining fries then got up to pay their tab. He returned carrying a Styrofoam container and plastic bag. Sitting back down, he placed the items in front of Sydney. She smiled weakly and began emptying her plate into the box. When she was finished she looked up at Mac and asked if he would give her a ride back to her office.

"Sure," he said as he tried to smile. It was the least he could do.

* * *

Later that evening, after work, Sydney found herself sitting in a run of the mill Manhattan coffee shop, waiting for her friend to arrive. Spotting her, she stood up and said, "Hey thanks for coming."

"No problem, I've always got time for you," said Dominique as she greeted Sydney with a hug. "What's up?"

Sitting back down, Sydney replied, "I have to go to California this weekend to finalize the sale of the house." A look of surprise and concern crossed Dominique's face as she spoke. "I was wondering if you could go with me. I know its short notice, but I only found out today myself."

"Um . . . yeah, yeah," said Dominique as she took a minute to process what she'd just heard. "Sure I can go with you." She placed her hand over Sydney's and squeezed it, adding, "Definitely."

"Thanks," said Sydney in relief. She tried to smile, but her eyes began to water. "I really didn't want to go by myself."

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**A/N:** Thanks for reading! Please take a minute to visit my profile and read _A Message to the FF Community_.


	6. Betrayal

**Disclaimer:** I do not own CSI:NY, JAG, NCIS or any of their characters. Any OCs however do belong to me.

**A/N:** As always, thanks to my IM buddy, **hope4sall, **for beta-ing. You've been a great help!

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_Monday, June 21, 2004_

It was the same dream. Every night for the past four months it invaded her sleep, violated her rest. What had once been her only means of escape had become another prison. Whereas she once craved her bed each night, she now dreaded it. She'd lay her head on her pillow one moment and the next she'd be back there, standing on the doorstep to an empty home, to a home she once loved and called her own. She'd walk inside, she didn't want to, but she couldn't stop herself. She knew what was waiting for her within – nothing. But the reminders of what had been were everywhere. All the lights were on, garlic bread was baking in the oven, pasta was boiling on the stove, and a George Strait song played in the background. She'd search every room, hoping … praying, that this time … this time, things would be different, that she would find what she had lost. She'd run from room to room, throwing open doors and calling out a name that no one ever answered. Her search and the dream would end in the master suite. The bed would be a mess, with rumpled sheets and matted pillows. She'd collapse on it, bury herself in it. Then she'd wake up with a start, feeling like the wind had been knocked out of her. And as much as she hated that dream and wished it would never enter her slumber again, she'd wonder if she ran fast enough, maybe the next time she'd find what she was looking for.

* * *

"Flack, what do we got?" asked Mac as he strode across the crumbling pavers of the John Finley Walk Way. The detective knew that was one of the hazards of residing next to the East River and being forced to breathe in its salty air day after day. The chlorides in the moist air would eat away at the concrete until nothing but powdery fragments remained. Aiden followed behind him, aluminum case in hand, mindful of her steps, so as not to get her heel caught in a crack and lose her balance.

Flack was standing next to the railing, looking down at the body that lay on the other side as he scribbled some notes in his memo book. Hearing Mac's voice he turned, tucked the pad into the breast pocket of his suit, and began rattling off the details. "John Doe, apparent gunshot wound to the chest, found in the water by a couple of 'urban anglers.'" Flack shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Why anyone would want to go fishing in the East River is beyond me. I mean, the thing stinks. It's got that oily smell to it, and God knows what else is down there."

Aiden took a step closer to Flack, looked up at him and said with a grin, "You know some people actually eat the fish they catch out of the river."

He wrinkled his face in disgust and tried to scrub the image from his mind. "That's just nasty."

Mac shook his head and laughed to himself then returning his attention to the dead body, he asked, "Anything else we need to know, Flack?"

"Huh? Oh, uh . . . no. There's not really a lot to go on here." He pointed to two men sitting on a nearby park bench. "Other than the fishermen who caught him in their hooks, I got no witnesses. This was definitely a body dump, so we're looking for a primary crime scene."

* * *

It was difficult for Sydney to keep her mouth closed as she listened to Dr. Hawkes explain what caused a twenty-seven year old woman to suddenly drop dead. She had questions to ask and comments to make. But as she reminded herself, this was not her case. She was merely an observer. For now it was imperative that she remain silent and impassive.

For the past week Sydney had done nothing but conduct annual personnel evaluations. Today she was shadowing Detective Third Grade Brian Bowman, more commonly known as "Bumbling Bowman." At times she had seriously considered dismissing him on the basis of his nickname alone. But, in the year and a half that she'd been his supervisor, she had seen some improvement in his job performance. She was hearing his nickname less often and she took that as a good sign. He had a heart for his job and she could tell that it was done with no little amount of effort. However, a good detective needed more than just passion; they needed honed skills and good judgment. If Bowman didn't show substantial improvement in those areas, she'd have no choice but to recommend transfer back to patrol. A career killer she knew, not to mention a blow to the poor guy's ego. But she had a responsibility to the NYPD, her team and the citizens of New York. If Bowman couldn't cut it, he had no place in her department.

Rachel Glass on the other hand was a completely different story. In the same year and a half she'd solved more cases and caught more criminals than anyone else in their unit. A feat for which she was not too well liked. She worked at least three doubles a week, one or two triples a month and had to be forced to take time off. Despite sometimes operating on little sleep and pure adrenaline, she rarely made mistakes. She knew how to do her job and she did it well. Not only that, but she had also learned how to get along better with her male colleagues, accept constructive criticism and not question orders, most of the time anyway. Sydney figured it must have been six months or more since she had to call Glass into her office to issue a reprimand. The change in her attitude and behavior while gradual was nonetheless remarkable. Her evaluation was scheduled to begin at eight tomorrow morning. Sydney knew they would be done by noon.

It was now a few minutes past two. Bowman's evaluation had begun at 8:00 AM as well. Sydney didn't expect to finish anytime before five.

* * *

Hawkes turned the victim's head to the side and pulled back her hair to reveal severe swelling at the base of her skull. As the doctor explained the cause of death, Sydney's attention drifted to the coroner's assistants who were transferring a new arrival from a body bag to an autopsy table. As she watched, something about the dead male caught her eye. On the right side of the man's neck, just below his ear was a birthmark, about the size of a quarter, and shaped like a pear. She knew she'd seen it before, but couldn't remember where. Sydney walked over to one of the assistants and asked, "What's his story?"

The one holding the clipboard containing the dead man's information, replied, "John Doe, pulled out of the East River this morning."

Sydney looked him up and down; saw his bloodstained shirt and the gaping hole in his chest and thought, "_Body dump_."

Noticing her absence, Hawkes stopped what he was doing and asked, "Everything okay, Lieutenant?"

"I'm not sure," she replied as she stared at the birthmark. "I think I know this man." She continued to stare and finally it hit her. "Shit," she muttered under her breath. She spun around and asked, "Are you finished with your autopsy report, doctor?" Hawkes indicated that he was, so Sydney turned to Bowman and said, "You and I are done for the day." The young detective looked surprised but nodded in understanding. Once he was gone, she stepped closer to the medical examiner and said in a hushed voice, "Put John Doe on ice and _do not_ begin the autopsy until you hear back from me." He looked confused and began to object, but she cut him off, "I need you to trust me on this."

Hawkes sighed and said, "We risk losing valuable evidence if we wait."

Sydney rubbed a hand across her forehead and said, "I know. I just need to make a phone call first. Give me a half hour, hour tops."

He reluctantly shook his head in agreement and said, "Mac's not going to like this. What do I tell him?"

Sydney pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and began walking towards the door. "You let me worry about Mac."

* * *

Sydney crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her fingers on her elbow as she waited for the elevator to reach her destination. She was the first one out of the car when the doors opened. She walked across the bullpen of the crime lab, her eyes scanning the groups of people going about their business. She cast a glance at Mac's office but discovered right away that he wasn't there. She made her way down the hall, checking each laboratory as she went, but still no sign of him. Prior to her arrival, she'd called both his office and cell phones three times, but they just rang and rang until going to voicemail. "_Where the hell is he_?" she wondered. She turned a corner and was just passing the DNA lab when she noticed him talking to Jane Parsons. She pushed open the door and without bothering to hide her frustration, said, "There you are. Why aren't you answering your cell?"

A frown settled on Jane's face, replacing the smile that had been there moments before. This change in demeanor however, went unnoticed by both Mac and Sydney.

Mac turned to face her, surprised by her sudden appearance and asked, "Is there a problem?"

Leaning on the door handle she replied, "Yeah, I've been calling you and leaving messages but not getting any response. Then I come over here to the lab and you're nowhere to be found. I've been walking up and down these halls looking for you for the past ten minutes."

Mac reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Flipping it open he said, "Oh, it looks like I put it on _silent_ instead of _vibrate_."

Sydney rolled her eyes and said, "Well, we need to talk." She tilted her head in the direction of the hallway and added, "In private."

Mac looked apologetically at Jane and said, "Thank you," before following Sydney out.

They walked the halls of the lab together in silence, neither speaking until they reached his office.

"So, what's so urgent that you couldn't wait for me to call you back?" asked Mac as he shut his office door behind him. He gestured for Sydney to take a seat, but she declined, preferring to stand instead.

Taking a deep breath first, she got straight to the point. "Your John Doe, down in autopsy?" Mac nodded. "He's an NCIS agent." The expression on Mac's face indicated he was clearly caught off guard by this. "From what I gather, he was working alone and undercover on an op here in the city."

Placing his hands on his hips, Mac asked, "How'd you find out he was NCIS?"

"I was in autopsy when they wheeled him in. I recognized him." Sydney saw the question in Mac's eye, so she added, "I was Military Police, when I was in the Marines. I worked with him briefly on an investigation years ago."

Mac nodded, then said, "Okay, but that doesn't explain how you know that he was working undercover."

"Right, that's why I was in a hurry to talk to you." She paused for a moment, knowing Mac wouldn't like what she had to say next. "I've already called it in to NCIS. I know some people there. They'll be here in a few hours."

"What?" Mac shouted. "You called them first before alerting me?"

Sydney tried not to yell back. The last thing she needed was for the Chief to get wind that she and Mac were arguing again. "Someone murdered a federal agent. I didn't have time to worry about whose toes I might be stepping on."

"Look, I have no problem handing the case over to NCIS." He took a deep breath, then in a lower voice added, "I just expected a little more courtesy on your part."

Sydney knew now that she had made a mistake. Her initial response, to call NCIS first was out of loyalty and obligation. Yet she also had an obligation to the NYPD. They also required her loyalty, and she had momentarily forgotten that. She had been out of the military for three years, but her ties to it were still strong and not easily displaced.

Sydney understood why Mac was upset and rightly so. In a matter of minutes she'd practically undone all the hard work the two of them had put into developing a cohesive, professional relationship over the past few months. She hoped her next words might help to ease his frustration. "Actually, I was told you could continue to process evidence until they arrive. They don't want to lose any time on this. You just need to keep a lid on whatever you find."

Mac looked surprised, but pleased. "They're going to let us work this together?"

Sydney shrugged her shoulders and replied, "I don't really know. We'll find out when they get here."

* * *

Sydney flipped open her cell phone, pressed the number six key and waited for her call to go through.

"Gibbs," answered the brusque voice on the other end.

"Hey, the CSIs were able to pull an address off the agent's Blackberry." Leaning back in her chair, she looked at the note she held in her other hand, and said, "It's an abandoned warehouse out at Port Morris in the Bronx. They're heading over there now. Considering traffic at this time of day, you'll both probably get there at the same time."

"You're not going with them?" Gibbs asked, clearly annoyed.

"No," she replied, as she wadded up the note and tossed it in her wastebasket. "It's not my case and I've plenty of work of my own to do."

"Too bad. Get your ass out there."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. I've already cleared it with your chief. You're going to be my _liaison_ to the NYPD."

Sydney straightened up in her chair causing it to rock forward with a loud thump as all of her weight slammed down it. "The hell? You and Mac will get along fine. You're both –"

"Decision's been made. You're on the case," Gibbs said, right before he hung up on her.

* * *

It was early evening when the three detectives arrived in front of the rundown warehouse. From the looks of it, it hadn't been occupied in ten years or more.

"They should be here any minute," said Sydney as she stepped out of the backseat of the GMC Envoy. "I suggest you wait for them before you start processing anything."

Mac nodded as he and Aiden walked around to the back of the SUV to get their cases. "So, how do you know this Agent Gibbs?" he asked.

Sydney stood next to the SUV, picking rocks out of the tire treads with her keys. From the moment she involved NCIS in the case, she knew this question was coming. Keeping her head down to avoid eye contact with Mac she answered, "My mom was an NCIS agent and Gibbs was her partner."

Mac raised his eyebrows a little bit in response. That clearly wasn't the answer he'd been expecting. He didn't pursue the subject however. Mac may have been an investigator who probed every detail of a case, no matter how minute. Yet, when it came to anyone or anything outside of an investigation he was content with knowing as little as possible.

Sydney pulled her cell phone out of her pocket to check the time, wondering how much longer it would be before Gibbs and his team arrived. She was about to send a text message asking for an update when she noticed a dark blue Dodge Intrepid barreling down the street a few hundred yards away. She laughed to herself and thought, "_Looks like Gibbs is driving today_." A few moments later, the car came to a screeching halt next to the Envoy.

An older man, with salt and pepper colored hair, hopped out of the driver's seat, holding a large cup of coffee. He was accompanied by two other people. A younger and slightly taller man, with gelled hair and a wide grin, stepped out of the passenger's seat. And exiting from the backseat was a pleasant looking woman with brunette hair that came to her shoulders. She was around Sydney's age but a couple inches shorter.

As the older man approached Mac, Sydney opened her mouth to introduce them, but he cut her off. Whipping out his badge and ID, he quickly flashed it for Mac to see, saying, "Special Agent Gibbs." Mac extended his hand and briefly introduced himself as well.

Getting right to the point, Gibbs asked, "So, what don't I know?"

Sydney replied, saying, "We've confirmed the identity. It's Agent Ian Douglas."

"Yeah, I know that," Gibbs said, annoyed. "What else?"

Mac took the opportunity to fill in the details. "He was shot once in the chest. Bullet went straight to the heart. The slug we pulled was nine mil." He cocked his head towards Aiden and said, "She ran it through IBIS and it came back as a match to Agent Douglas' firearm, which we did not recover."

"He was killed with his own weapon," muttered Tony under his breath.

Mac nodded and continued. "We also found foreign DNA under his fingernails. We ran it through CODIS and it came back as a match to a Lenny Sackett. We've got a BOLO out on him."

A scowl spread across Gibb's face. "Sonofabitch. That's his goddamn CI." He shook his head and sighed as he turned around and studied his surroundings. He looked up at the old brick building, which was covered in graffiti. The windows on the ground floor had been boarded up and the windows on the two upper floors were cracked and broken in several places. "So you think this might be the primary crime scene?" he asked. Mac nodded. He turned to address his team members. "Tony. Kate. Start processing." Then turning to Mac he asked, "Detective Taylor, do you want to stay here and help process or come with me to the agent's apartment?"

Mac agreed to join Gibbs but left Aiden behind to help Tony and Kate process. Gibbs rode in the backseat of the SUV while Mac drove him and Sydney out to Long Island City in Brooklyn, where Agent Douglas' apartment was.

"So what haven't you told us, Gibbs?" asked Sydney.

He took a long sip of his coffee before answering. "For the past six months, Douglas was operating undercover here in New York. He'd come across some intel suggesting that a U.S. Naval officer was selling state secrets to terrorists. When he last checked in at seven o'clock yesterday evening, he reported that he was meeting his confidential informant later, who supposedly had some valuable information for him." He shook his head and added with a wry chuckle, "We know how that turned out."

Mac's grip on the steering wheel tightened as he heard Gibb's words. It disgusted him to think that a fellow officer, a fellow defender of freedom and the United States, could turn his back on his people, could use the training he was given, which was meant to protect his country's citizens, for traitorous acts. Mac was sickened and angry. This case had suddenly become very personal.

Sydney shook her head in disbelief. She knew that once in a while things like this happened. Her father was a Navy lawyer, so she heard stories. But it was always after the fact and never involved her personally. Until now. "Any idea who it is?"

"Yeah," said Gibbs, "but you're not going to like it."

Turning around in her seat to face him, she asked, "Who?"

"Lieutenant Commander Jack Keeter."

"Bullshit!" she spat, as soon as the name left Gibb's mouth.

Looking her in the eye he said, "All the evidence we have so far points to him."

"You're wrong. It's not him." She turned back in her seat and stared out her window at the passing buildings. "It's not him," she repeated under her breath.

* * *

Sydney stood in front of the desk, digging through the piles of papers scattered across it. Mac watched her as she sorted through the mess. Since Gibbs had revealed the identity of the prime suspect, she'd become unusually silent. She didn't say anything throughout the rest of the car ride or since they'd arrived at the apartment. She knew the suspect. That much was clear. He put down the photos he was looking at and walked over next to her. "So, who's Keeter?" he asked quietly.

Sydney tossed the papers she was holding onto the desk and took a deep breath. "He's a friend."

"Just a friend?"

Sydney knew what his question implied and she wanted to bite his head off for it, but she also knew that he was just trying to do his job, so as evenly and calmly as possible, she replied, "Yeah, just a friend… Honestly, he and I aren't that close. I met him through someone else…It's just, he's a good guy. I can't believe he'd be capable of something like this."

"I recommend you start trying," said Gibbs as he walked back into the living room from the bedroom and handed her a stack of photographs. "Look familiar?"

Sydney took in a sharp breath as she flipped through photo after photo showing Jack Keeter meeting with and passing large manila envelopes to a gruff looking man, who hadn't shaved in days, and was missing two fingers on his left hand. "There has to be an explanation for this…He worked black ops all the time for the CIA. How do you know this isn't another one? Maybe he's passing them false information."

Gibbs shook his head. "If that was the case, they would've shut this investigation down before it got started."

"There has to be some other explanation for this," she insisted, unwilling to consider the possibility that her friend was a traitor.

* * *

The three investigators turned agent Douglas' apartment upside down in their hunt for answers. It was a small space, only three rooms, a bedroom, bathroom and the main room which included a kitchenette, so it didn't take them long to toss the place. They found more pictures, more documents - more evidence pointing to Jack Keeter. Douglas didn't seem to have any other suspects. Six months of undercover work and it was Keeter's name that he kept coming back to. Despite all this, Sydney held firm to her position that surely, this was another black op that he was working for the CIA. Whatever it was, he was in deep. She countered Gibbs' claim and assumed that he was in so deep that the CIA simply wouldn't acknowledge it.

Gibbs gave up trying to convince her. He knew if it was true, and his gut told him it was, that it was something that Sydney was going to have to see for herself to believe. So when he came across more damning photos and audio and video surveillance tapes, he didn't say anything, just bagged and tagged them, and dropped them in the nearest evidence box.

After an hour of helping the two men search the apartment, Sydney walked down to the street to sit in the SUV and wait for them to finish up. She knew it was rather rude and unprofessional, but at the moment, she really didn't give a damn. She needed time to think, time to sort all this disturbing information out. The rational investigator within her knew that she had to consider the possibility that what Gibbs was telling her was true. She would be remiss in her duty if she let personal feelings get in the way and cloud her judgment. Somewhere deep inside her, she knew it was true. Yet she pushed that acknowledgement out of her mind. The ramifications of this new reality were too much for her to handle. It changed everything in a way she wasn't prepared to accept.

She didn't know how long she'd been sitting there when she heard the back door of the vehicle open and Mac and Gibbs' voices as they loaded boxes of evidence. Gibbs came around to the side and climbed in the backseat. "Tony called. They found blood spatter at the warehouse. DNA was a match to Douglas." Sydney looked at him through the visor mirror and nodded. "And patrol picked up Sackett. We're going to head over to the station now. Find out what he knows." Sydney nodded again, unsure if she wanted to find out.

* * *

Sydney watched from behind the two-way mirror as Gibbs dropped a case folder on the metal table and took a seat across from Sackett in the interrogation room. "So, when did you turn on Agent Douglas? Or have you been working against him all along?"

Sackett returned Gibbs' glare with one that was equally resolute. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Those nail marks on your hand, did he give them to you as he struggled to get his gun back?"

Sackett mindlessly rand his fingers over the top of his right hand, saying nothing in response.

"We found your DNA under Douglas' nails, and his gun in your glove box. So, is there any reason I shouldn't think that you killed him?"

"Man, you ain't got no idea what you're dealing with."

Gibbs just smirked and said, "No, it's you who doesn't know. I'm going to let the police keep you in their custody, which means tomorrow, you can expect to be sent up to Rikers. And in the meantime, I'm going to make sure that word gets out about you being a snitch." He stood up from the table, grabbed his folder and walked towards the door, adding, "I'll be curious to see how long you last out there."

Gibbs was in the hallway, shutting the door behind him, when he heard Sackett call out, "What do you wanna know?"

Gibbs smiled to himself. He turned around and walked back to his chair. Sitting down he replied, "Everything."

* * *

"Are you sure this is it?" asked Mac, as he pulled in behind a parked car on Shore Boulevard, just across from Astoria Park in Queens. It was just after nine in the evening and the park was mostly deserted except for a few stragglers who paid no attention to the posted hours.

"This is where Sackett told Gibbs the meet was going down," replied Sydney. Earlier that morning she had watched as Sackett spilled every little detail about his involvement in Agent Douglas' death, his contact with Jack Keeter and his knowledge of Keeter's activities. According to Sackett's version of things, Keeter figured out that he was working for Douglas and offered him fifty grand to switch sides, and if necessary, take out Douglas. Being the street rat that he was, the money was more valuable to him than an expunged record, so he took the deal. Under any other circumstances, Sydney would've readily accepted this confession. She couldn't deny that she was having doubts, but she was still unwilling to wholeheartedly accept that Jack Keeter, a decorated naval officer, was a traitor to his country.

"So we're just playing back up?" asked Mac.

Sydney nodded as she stared out the windshield at the Triborough Bridge which stood just a few hundred feet away from where they were parked. "Gibbs and his team are in position on the other side of the bridge. If the targets try to run for it, we stop them; otherwise, we stay put."

A few minutes later, Tony's voice came over the radio. "A car just pulled up, and parked under the bridge… Someone's getting out…They're leaning up against the trunk…Looks like they're –"

Gibbs' voice cut in suddenly. "I've got movement in the park. Someone's headed your way, Tony."

* * *

"Wow. That was really sweet of you, Tony," said Kate, as they stood outside the crime lab's conference room. "There's actually a human being under that smug façade of yours."

Tony looked through the glass window at Sydney as she sat at the table, with her hand in an oversized cup of ice. "I have my moments." He continued to watch her until Gibbs arrived, knowing the only thing he could do for her was to simply be there.

Sydney had no desire to talk or even think. She just wanted to sleep and not dream. She was only vaguely aware of the throbbing pain in her right hand as she soaked it under layers of ice cubes. Staring straight ahead at the wall in front of her, her mind kept replaying the events of the last two hours over and over again, against her will.

Sackett's information had been correct, and the capture of the rogue naval officer and his terrorist contact had gone relatively smoothly. Although they both tried to make a run for it, not a single shot had been fired. The contact bolted down the street towards where Mac and Sydney were parked, with Gibbs in hot pursuit. Seeing the man coming, Mac hopped out of the SUV and tackled the guy, pinning him to the ground as he slapped a set of cuffs on him. On the other side of the bridge, Tony and Kate had been waiting in a parked car. When they saw the suspect running their way, Tony threw the car in drive and headed straight for him, spinning the wheel at the last second, causing the car to bank right at ninety degrees. The two didn't collide, but the suspect skidded to halt right in front of Kate's open window where she had her gun pointed directly at him.

Sydney was out of the vehicle within seconds of Mac. She cast one glance at the man pinned under his knee, and seeing it wasn't who she was looking for, darted off in the opposite direction. She saw him from the back, standing next to Tony's car with his hands in the air, and recognized him immediately. "Jack!" she hollered. His head snapped up at the sound of her voice and he slowly turned around with his arms still raised. She watched as first surprise then shame quickly spread across his face, leaving behind a blank expression. Her presence had caught him off guard and gave Tony the opportunity he needed to move in behind him and handcuff him.

She knew now. The look on his face told her it was true. There was no more denying it, no more hoping it was all a misunderstanding. She moved within inches of his face. Her voice eerily calm as she asked, "How could you?" She shook her head and tried to swallow the lump that was forming in her throat. Keeter kept his eyes locked on her and didn't try to turn away. "Bastard!" she yelled as she swung her right arm, her fist making contact with the side of his face. The smack of skin on skin and the crunch of bone on bone was deafening in her ears. "He was your friend," she spat through gritted teeth as she watched him stumble backwards. He wiped a hand across his bloodied mouth as he tried to steady himself. He locked eyes with her, but said nothing, his face still unreadable. She wanted to slug him again and again, until she beat the living shit out of him. She balled her fist and was preparing to swing when she felt a rough hand grab her upper arm and pull her backwards. She didn't need to hear his voice to know who it was.

"Get her out of here, Tony," ordered Gibbs.

Sydney forgot most of what happened after that. The ride back to the lab was a blur, although she vaguely remembered that Tony stopped somewhere along the way to get her some ice. She wasn't consciously aware of anything until Gibbs sat down next to her in the conference room. He sat with her in silence for a few minutes before finally asking, "You wanna know why he did it?"

She shook her head _no_. It didn't matter why because it wouldn't change the fact that he had betrayed his country, his fellow servicemen … that he had betrayed her. She pulled her numb hand out of the ice and cradled it in her other hand. Looking down at it she said in a voice only Gibbs could hear, "Today would've been two years."

He nodded, reached over to squeeze her good hand and said, "I know."

* * *

**A/N:** In case you don't remember, Tony was briefly mentioned at the end of chapter 3. Just wanted to point that out in case Tony's kindness to Sydney didn't make sense. Also, for those of you who are not big JAG fans like myself, Lt. Cmdr. Jack Keeter was an actual character from that show. He only appeared in two eps, so even those familiar with JAG might not remember him. He was known to work black ops missions, that much about him is true. The part about him being a traitor was my idea. Finally, to any NCIS fans, I apologize that Kate and Tony did not play bigger parts in this chapter. My only excuse is that writing a crossover chap is difficult, hence the delayed update.


End file.
